• fourteen •

“I never, in all my life, met with such an abject thing as she is.… I’ve sometimes relented, from pure lack of invention, in my experiments on what she could endure, and still creep shamefully cringing back.”

—Heathcliff to Nelly Dean, Wuthering Heights

By the time Luke had finished at Windy Corner Saturday night, it was past midnight. But he still had to inform Jake’s next of kin—his parents. He stopped off at home for a quick change of clothes—he needed the moral support of his uniform for this.

Carter Newhouse’s office was in Tillamook, but his house stood high on the hill above Stony Beach—almost as big and grand as Windy Corner but modern, the front mostly windows to get the best view of the sea. Emily would hate it. Luke knew nothing about architecture and cared less, but even he felt intimidated and shut out by the three stories of reflective glass and gleaming metal that loomed above him as he ducked under the low bit of roof over the double ebony doors. He felt like he was asking admittance to a prison.

He knocked, rang the bell, and knocked again before he heard somebody at the door. A young, sleepy female voice asked, “Who is it?”

Luke identified himself, and the door was opened by a stunning young girl in a bathrobe. Did Jake have a sister?

“Everyone’s in bed, Lieutenant. What’s this about?” The girl didn’t seem fazed by his uniform; as a criminal lawyer, Newhouse probably got visits from law enforcement all the time.

“Are you the daughter of the house?”

She snorted. “Me? No. Just the hired help.” Newhouse himself must do the hiring; no wife with any sense would allow a girl who looked like that under her roof. Especially not if father was anything like son.

“I need to speak to Mr. and Mrs. Newhouse.”

She blinked and widened her eyes. “Mrs. Newhouse?” she repeated.

“That’s right. I have something very important to tell them both.”

“Important enough to wake them up for? ’Cause if not, my job’s on the line.”

Luke nodded. “I guarantee it.”

“All right. It’ll be a few minutes.”

She showed him into a small reception room—small for the scale of the house, anyway, though it was bigger than his living room. The black leather club chairs looked comfortable, but looks were as far as it went; the leather didn’t yield an inch when he sat on it.

His hosts didn’t show up right away, so he flipped through his notes to refresh his memory. After a few pages he checked his watch. He’d been waiting ten minutes. What were they doing, getting their hair done?

Five more minutes went by before the door opened and Carter Newhouse came in by himself, freshly shaved, wearing a crisp dress shirt and slacks. At least he’d left off the tie and coat.

Luke stood to meet him. Even if he hadn’t already known Newhouse by sight, he would have recognized him by his resemblance to his son—the same sleazy good looks, though older and starting to sag around the jowls; the same arrogant strut, lifted chin, lip ever ready to curl into a sneer.

“What’s this about—” He glanced at the business card Luke had handed to the maid. “Lieutenant? The maid assured me it was important enough to get me out of bed. I hope she was right.”

“I need to speak to you and your wife together, sir. Didn’t the maid tell you?”

“My wife will be here shortly. Though I can’t imagine what you think could concern her.”

The door opened again and a middle-aged woman scurried in, fully dressed and made up as if she were going out to bridge or a fancy lunch. Even Luke, fashion-blind as he was, could tell her outfit was pricey. It stood out from her shrinking body like it was held in shape by wires. She didn’t so much wear her clothing as visit it, like a scared kid in a china shop who’d been warned not to touch. She shot a glance at her husband before putting out a hand to meet Luke’s, then barely touched his fingers and snatched her hand away. Luke tried to look into her eyes, but she wouldn’t meet his. Under the careful makeup he thought he could see a shadow on one thin, pale cheek. But maybe it was just a trick of the light.

He hated the errand he’d come on even more now, and was almost sorry he’d insisted on seeing Jake’s mother. This fragile woman might break apart before his eyes at what he had to tell her.

“I’m afraid I have some bad news for you both. You might want to sit down.”

Mrs. Newhouse gave a little gasp and groped for the chair behind her. Newhouse stayed on his feet, braced like a sailor against the swell. “Out with it, Lieutenant. I’ve taken bad news before.”

I, not we. Luke fixed his eyes on the wife and put into them all the compassion he could drum up. Jake might have been a prime candidate for Shithead of the Year, but he was this woman’s son. She must have loved him if anyone did.

“I’m very sorry to have to tell you your son Jake was found dead earlier this evening. During the party at Windy Corner.”

Mrs. Newhouse did in fact come as close as flesh and blood could to breaking up before his eyes. She shrank into her chair, clutching her hands to her mouth, her face all eyes. A mouselike squeak came from her throat.

Newhouse just stared at Luke, frowning. “Found dead? What does that mean? Did he have an accident?”

Luke chose his words carefully for the mother’s sake. “He was found at the bottom of an enclosed spiral staircase.” He cleared his throat, hoping Mrs. Newhouse’s shock would keep her from taking in his next words. “We’re treating it as a suspicious death.”

No such luck. Her squeaking rose to a moan, and she rocked herself in the chair. “My boy … my beautiful, foolish boy…”

Newhouse frowned at her and strode to the door. “Amy. Mrs. Newhouse has had a shock. Get her back to bed.” The maid helped Mrs. Newhouse to her feet, more gently than Luke would have expected, and led her out of the room, bearing most of her weight. Seeing his wife could hardly move her own feet, Newhouse added, “And better call Dr. Tomlinson.”

So Newhouse had a tame Tillamook doctor at his beck and call. Luke wasn’t surprised; Sam Griffiths would be way too much “of the people” for Newhouse’s taste.

He shut the door and turned back to Luke. “Now tell me the rest. What happened to him?”

Luke had no qualms about spelling out the details now. “He was stabbed in the chest. It looks like he subsequently either fell or was pushed down the stairs. The autopsy will tell us whether it was the knife wound or the head trauma from the fall that killed him.”

“So it’s murder.”

“Looks like it.”

Newhouse’s nostrils flared. “I knew that so-called fundraiser was a damned fool idea. Putting the idea of murder in people’s heads. I’m surprised Beatrice’s niece would be so irresponsible. Beatrice would never have allowed it.”

Luke bridled for Emily’s sake, though he’d questioned the plan’s wisdom himself. “People have murder mystery parties all the time without anybody getting killed for real. If a person has reason enough to kill somebody, he’s not gonna wait for a setting like that to do it in. Just made it a little handier, is all.”

“You say ‘he.’ Do you have the killer in custody?”

“Just a form of speech. We have half-a-dozen suspects, male and female. Just need to narrow them down.”

“I trust you’ll do that speedily. I want my son’s killer brought to justice without delay.”

“We’ll do our best, Mr. Newhouse. These things can take a little time. You could expedite the process yourself by answering a few questions.” Luke took out his notebook and sat down.

Newhouse remained standing, his face like an old Roman statue. “What questions? You can’t suspect me. I was nowhere near the place.”

Odd that he didn’t say you can’t suspect me of killing my own son. Most parents would. “No, sir. I mean about Jake. Anything that might shed light on who’d want to kill him and why.”

“No one. Jake was a law-abiding young man, respected by his peers. I can’t imagine who would dare to do this to him.”

“There are some indications it might have been a crime of passion, as they say. Either a girl he—didn’t treat too well, or a jealous guy.”

Something like a smile cracked the stone of Newhouse’s face. “He was one for the ladies, my Jake.” He waved a hand. “But murder? You don’t kill a boy for sowing his wild oats.”

Luke swallowed the revulsion that rose in his gullet. Was Newhouse in denial about the true nature of Jake’s “wild oats,” or did he know and genuinely consider it trivial? Either way, it was clear Jake’s attitude toward women didn’t come out of nowhere.

“You’d be surprised what some people will kill over. But if there’s anything else you can tell me—was Jake involved in drugs? Have a falling out with a friend? Anything that might not be obvious on the surface?”

Newhouse walked to the window and stared toward the sea, though all he’d be able to see in the dark was his own reflection. “No drugs. I told you he was law-abiding. But Jake has—had—been living on his own since he finished high school. I don’t really know that much about his life.”

“Did he have any close friends? Any brothers or sisters?”

“One brother, but he’s much older, practicing law in Portland. He and Jake have never been particularly close. As for friends—” He turned to face Luke, the Roman statue lost in a childlike bewilderment that looked ridiculous on his middle-aged face. “I simply have no idea.”

“Maybe your wife could tell me.”

He gave a small snort. “As you’ve seen, she’s in no condition to tell anyone anything.”

“Not now, of course. Maybe when she’s had a little time to recover.”

Newhouse turned back to the window. “She isn’t good for much at the best of times. But by all means waste your time with her if you like.”

Luke took his leave. Mrs. Newhouse was so easily intimidated, he doubted he’d get much out of her himself—but that didn’t mean there was nothing to be gotten. Emily would be more likely to get her to talk.

*   *   *

Emily awoke next morning with every joint feeling as if it were encased in an iron cast. She was positive she’d never be able to move a millimeter. But then she realized what had awakened her was Lizzie whimpering, gearing up for a full-scale cry—accompanied by the sound of the shower running.

And Katie’s voice, incredibly, rising above the water’s roar in a gleeful rendition of “Oh, What a Beautiful Morning.”

Propelled by necessity, Emily pushed herself up to a sitting position on Katie’s couch. She ran her hands over her face and hair—oh, dear, that elaborate turn-of-the-century coiffure that she’d never brushed out last night—and dug the sleep out of the corners of her eyes. Then she summoned every ounce of strength and willpower she possessed and stood.

She could do this. She could walk into the nursery, pick up Lizzie, change her diaper, get her a bottle. She might be getting old, but she wasn’t dead yet.

But Jake Newhouse was.

And that must be why Katie was singing.

The weight that had been hanging around Katie’s neck since Lizzie’s conception—and with renewed dragging heaviness since Jake reappeared in her life—had been lifted, completely and permanently. The man who had violated her, destroyed her self-esteem, and changed the direction of her life could never disturb her peace again.

The realization dazed Emily. She herself had reason aplenty to wish Jake out of existence, but his death had nevertheless left her feeling almost as violated as Katie had been by his rape of her. Jake had died at Windy Corner, polluting Emily’s beloved home with hatred, violence, and blood.

At least the blood could be dealt with. She felt in her trouser pocket for the business card Luke had handed her last night. CLEAN SCENE—WE ERASE ALL TRACE. She’d call them as soon as she’d taken care of Lizzie.

Emily returned the card to her pocket and hurried to the nursery, where Lizzie’s whimpering had escalated to a wail. She scooped up the baby and held her close, cooing to her and rubbing her back. In moments Lizzie was calm again.

Poor thing, she doesn’t even know her father is dead. Even poorer thing for the fact that it’s better for her that he is.

Jamie would make a great stepfather. Maybe now that Jake was out of the way, that relationship would have a chance to bloom.

Emily changed Lizzie’s sopping diaper and took her to the kitchen, where she strapped her into the high chair and gave her an arrowroot biscuit to pacify her while she fixed a bottle. Meanwhile she heard the shower cut off, and a few minutes later Katie came into the kitchen in her bathrobe, toweling her long wet hair.

“Mrs. C! What are you doing here?” She scooped Lizzie out of the chair and nuzzled her biscuity cheek. “Good morning, babycakes. How’s my girlie?”

“I slept on your couch. Dr. Griffiths had given you a sedative, so I thought someone should be here in case Lizzie woke up before you.”

“A sedative? What for?” The light slowly dimmed from Katie’s face. “Oh. Right. I remember now.”

Emily put down the bottle and went to hug her. “It’ll be all right,” she said meaninglessly as she patted Katie’s back.

Katie pulled away and put on a smile. “Of course it will. Everything will be all right now. Come on, Lizzie-lou, let’s get you dressed. You can bring your ba-ba.” She took the bottle from the counter and headed for the nursery.

Emily followed. “If you’re okay then—I guess I’ll go get cleaned up. My hair must look like Fright Night.”

“Sure, no problem,” Katie said over her shoulder as she laid Lizzie on the changing table. “We’re good. Everything’s tickety-boo.” Katie was a fan of British television as well.

Emily’s first action on entering her own house was to call Clean Scene. A chirpy female voice promised they would be there early afternoon. It was seven now—they must work ’round the clock.

After a long negotiation with her stiff and ratted hair, an even longer shower, and some clean clothes, Emily emerged to find Marguerite’s bedroom door still firmly closed and Katie singing as she produced enticing odors in the kitchen. The library was back to its normal self, all trace of last night’s frolics removed. The cats lifted their heads from the hearthrug and mewed in greeting as Emily sat in her favorite chair and took up her knitting. She could almost believe last night had been nothing worse than a dream.

But she couldn’t bring herself to look at the curved section of bookshelf that led to the secret stairs. No, her house was not unaffected, her life wasn’t normal, and she wasn’t sure it ever would be again.

And it was all Jake Newhouse’s fault. If he hadn’t been such a lousy excuse for a human being, he wouldn’t have gotten himself killed in her stairwell. She could kill him herself for that. But that would be redundant, and she had always exhorted her students to eschew redundancy.

Maybe she should go back to teaching. Since she’d come to Windy Corner, her life seemed to consist of one murder after another. Nothing like that ever happened at Reed. Well, the occasional student did commit suicide; last year it had been one of her own protégés, and that had cut deep. But at least suicide didn’t leave a trail of hatred behind it.

Katie would be perfectly capable of running the writers’ retreat on her own. Emily could simply pay the bills and visit once in a while. Marguerite and her other colleagues would be thrilled to have her back. Her little house would welcome her with open doors. And Luke—

Luke. The fly in the ointment, the flaw in the plan. The rub, as in “Aye, there’s the rub.” She might be furious with him at the moment, but to cut him out of her life—she couldn’t even follow that thought to its logical conclusion.

She would have to stay and prove Katie’s innocence. That—and Clean Scene—would surely exorcise Jake Newhouse’s spirit from Windy Corner once and for all.

*   *   *

Marguerite did not appear at breakfast, so Emily felt no compunction about leaving her guest to go to church. She didn’t often attend St. Bede’s, the little Anglican church on the hillside in whose cemetery Beatrice was buried, because the contrast between the comparatively bare clapboard building, with its off-key priest leading poorly attended services, and her own Russian Orthodox church in Portland, with its icon-covered, incense-saturated walls and richly sung liturgy, was too stark and painful. Instead she tried to get to St. Sergius once a month or so; but at this point she hadn’t been for six weeks or more. Her spirit was parched, and she must give it whatever water she could find.

The choir stumbled through the first part of the service, more than half of them obviously the worse for last night’s excitement. Emily was relieved when the time came for the sermon, but her relief was short-lived. Father Stephen was well-intentioned and at times achieved something like eloquence, as he had at Beatrice’s funeral. Today, however, he seemed dumbfounded by last night’s events. He could hardly eulogize a young man as notorious as Jake, nor refer to his death as a “tragedy” without coughing into his sleeve. Instead he spoke vaguely of the need for the community to pull together in this “difficult time.”

Emily, sitting in Beatrice’s customary front pew, snuck a few glances behind her to see what expressions met Father Stephen as he looked out on his unusually large congregation. Thinly veiled ghoulish curiosity predominated, with a sprinkling of guilty discomfort from some who felt they ought to regret Jake’s death more strongly, and outright satisfaction from several who, like Katie, would find their lives much improved by his loss.

The communion portion of the service offered no comfort, either, since Emily, as an Orthodox Christian, could not partake in a church of a different tradition. So she withdrew into her own prayers, drawing on the fragile threads of a century of remembered piety that waved like broken cobwebs from the chipped stained-glass windows, the worn burgundy velveteen of the kneelers, the frayed fabric covering of the hymnals. People had genuinely prayed here at some time—prayed in joy, in hope, in anguish, in thanksgiving, or in desperate grief. Emily joined their prayers with hers now, imploring God for Jake’s ghost to be exorcised from Windy Corner, for Katie and all innocent persons to be exonerated, and for the guilty—not to be punished, but to find peace. Peace was all she wanted, for herself, for her home, for all who had ever entered it or ever would.

After the service, the crowd milled around her, discreetly or overtly pumping her for information about the investigation. “I’m sorry, I’m not at liberty to comment,” she said over and over. “Lieutenant Richards will make a statement when he’s ready.” Luke hadn’t actually told her that, but she was pretty sure he would have if he’d thought of it, and it got her off the hook. She made it all the way down the aisle and out the front door, only to run smack into Rita Spenser. The reporter filled the porch, blocking Emily’s way.

“So, Emily, got yourself another murder at Windy Corner? That house is starting to seem positively unhealthy.” Rita grinned, showing crooked nicotine-stained teeth and exuding vapors to match.

Emily backed up a step and repeated her formula with added conviction. “I’m sure Lieutenant Richards will contact you when he has anything to report.”

Rita leaned closer. The combination of her halitosis and rank body odor made Emily gag. “But I want the scoop. Straight from the horse’s mouth.”

Emily held her handkerchief to her face and pretended to sneeze. “I assure you, I know far less than the sheriff does. Practically nothing, in fact. Please excuse me. I really need to get home.”

Rita planted her feet, arms akimbo. This wasn’t going to be easy.

Emily heard a voice behind her. “Is this egregious individual discomfiting you, Mrs. Cavanaugh?”

She turned to see Billy Beech, a scowl disfiguring his normally jovial round face. Billy was Rita’s cousin, though kin to her only in size, and perhaps the only person in Stony Beach who could intimidate her.

“Yes, Billy, she is.” Emily flattened herself against the doorframe to let him pass.

He rushed Rita like a fullback, head down, leading with his shoulder. “Begone, you perfidious viper! Before I squash you like the crawling insect you are!” Billy’s vocabulary exceeded his ability to stick to a single metaphor, but at the moment Emily was not inclined to critique his choice of words.

Rita, astonishingly, gave way and melted resentfully into the crowd, eyes smoldering. If only there were some way to pin Jake’s murder on Rita—Stony Beach would be rid of two scourges with one blow.