• seventeen •

Mr. Rochester was not to me what he had been; for he was not what I had thought him. I would not ascribe vice to him; I would not say he had betrayed me: but the attribute of stainless truth was gone from his idea.

—Jane Eyre

Luke’s steps dragged as he left Windy Corner. Once again he’d parted from Emily with hardly a friendly word, let alone the hug and kiss he’d grown to depend on more than his daily bread. If he couldn’t clear Katie soon, he’d go out of his mind.

Once again he drove to Remembrance of Things Past, where he knew Devon Penhallow was living over the shop. The shop door was locked—naturally, since it was Sunday night—but a piece of white printer paper was taped to the window. Big letters scrawled with a red crayon read, SODOMITES GO HOME.

Good grief. Just what he needed, some knucklehead going postal over a gay couple in the middle of a murder investigation. He pulled out his phone and took pictures of the paper in place—one close up, one far back enough to get the shop’s sign in—then put on a latex glove and pulled it carefully off the window. He wished he didn’t have to show it to Devon, but those were the rules—the target had to be informed.

He rang the bell at the side door that led upstairs to Devon and Hilary’s apartment. Light feet pattered down the stairs, and Devon opened the door. His greeting stopped in his throat as Luke held up the sign. “Found this on your shop window.”

Devon put a hand up to his eyes. “Oh, my sainted aunt. It begins again.”

“Again? You’ve had incidents like this before?”

“Not here. Other places. Places we’ve left, always hoping to find a home where we might be accepted as simply people rather than ‘those people.’ I suppose a small town in Oregon wasn’t the wisest choice.” Devon stepped back from the door and waved Luke in.

“Portland’d be a better bet, I’d think.” Luke followed Devon up the stairs.

“In that sense, yes. But we wanted a community we could become part of. Not a gay community, but an average one, with people of all ages and orientations—not just young, hip, liberal people. We wanted to fit in, live a normal life.” He opened the apartment door. “Have a seat, Lieutenant. Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee? Wine?”

“No, thanks.” Luke scanned the room, furnished with pieces he’d expect to see behind a red velvet rope in a museum. He sat on the one chair that looked like it might hold his weight. “I didn’t actually come here about this sign—just found it on my way in. You want me to investigate this?”

Devon perched on a sofa with enough carved curlicues to make Luke’s head spin. “No. I’d rather let it pass. We’ve made too much of an investment in this place—I don’t want to stir up any more trouble than we can help.”

“Your call. I do have to ask you one thing, though. When was the last time you looked at your front window and didn’t see the sign?”

“Last night when I came home from the party. I’m sure it wasn’t there then. I haven’t gone out all day—last night was rather exhausting.”

“Couldn’t have been Jake, then. Would’ve been pretty convenient if your little problem had died with him.”

Devon raised an eyebrow. “A bit too convenient. Is that what you’re implying? I take it I’m still a suspect?”

“No more than a few others. I’m in the process of eliminating people now. Were you wearing gloves last night?”

“I was when I arrived. I took them off to eat, of course. As I recall I never put them back on.”

“Do you have them here?”

“Certainly.” He went into another room and came back holding a pair of white gloves. Luke expected fabric, but when Devon put them into his hand, he realized they were made of the finest, softest kid leather he’d ever seen. Way too soft to have been washed since last night. He turned them over, looking closely at the seams. No sign of blood anywhere.

“These look all right, but I’ll have to have them analyzed. If the gloves and your shirt both come back clean, I should be able to strike your name off the list.”

“Really? Well, that’s a relief, although I must say being a suspect did inject a wee bit of romance into my humdrum existence. Almost a compliment, you know, to be thought capable of murder. Hilary would have been impressed.” He gave a wry smile.

Luke found himself liking this fellow more than he would have expected. He stood. “I’d like to tell you I’ll keep a discreet eye out for your vandal. But frankly, in the middle of a murder investigation, that’s gonna be tough.”

“Understood.” Devon stood and shook Luke’s hand. “I appreciate the thought.” He dropped his voice confidentially. “My money’s on Cordelia Fitzgerald. Such a drama queen! You know she was seated next to me last night. If her gown hadn’t been cut so low, I’d have sworn she was a bloke in drag.”

“Cordelia? But her movements are accounted for. She didn’t leave the table till it was time to send everybody upstairs.”

Devon drew back. “Is that what she told you? I’m afraid she was fibbing, Lieutenant. Cordelia left the table just before I did. Immediately after Newhouse went out.”

Luke’s view of the case stood on its head. “Why the hell didn’t you say so?”

“The classic answer: You didn’t ask. You only asked me about my own movements, not those of the people around me.”

Served him right for not being thorough. “But Heather asked the other people at your table—Veronica Lacey, for instance. She didn’t mention Cordelia leaving.”

“I expect she assumed—as I did—that Cordelia was going about her lawful errands as director of the play. I’m sure you’ve noticed, Lieutenant—people tend not to remark on things they expect to happen.”

“True enough.” Luke amended his mental to-do list for tomorrow to put Cordelia smack at the top.

“Good night, Lieutenant. And I do hope you’ll solve your case quickly—for Emily’s sake.”

Luke’s “Me, too” in response was more heartfelt than Devon could know.

*   *   *

Monday morning, Luke went over the statements from Devon’s tablemates one more time. Nope, not a word about Cordelia leaving early. You’d think there’d been a conspiracy to back up her story. Or—just possibly—Devon was putting the finger on her to take Luke’s eyes off himself. But Luke doubted it. Devon just didn’t smell like a murderer.

He checked Cordelia’s statement again. Huh—she hadn’t actually said she hadn’t left the table after Jake; she just implied it. Sly little—well, he’d see what she had to say for herself. And pick up those gloves in the process.

He tracked her down at the high school, sorting costumes in a back room behind the stage. “Lieutenant Richards! To what do I owe this pleasure?” She came toward him with hands outstretched, just as if she were in her drawing room and he a society caller.

He kept his hands on his notebook and pen, leaving her to drop her arms awkwardly. She covered her confusion by smoothing the folds of her gauzy multicolored skirt.

“I need the gloves Matthew Sweet was wearing the other night. For that matter, I could use all the gloves from all the cast members.”

Cordelia swept her arm toward a box on a table piled with white. “All there, Lieutenant. But they’re rented—I have to return them by tomorrow.”

“Not gonna happen, I’m afraid. I’ll give you a receipt for the rental company. Any record of who wore which pair?”

She gave a silvery laugh. “Hardly. I have a check-in sheet where I recorded who returned their things, but once the gloves came in, they went straight into that box.”

Hell. He’d been afraid of that. “They haven’t been washed, have they?”

“No. That was next on my list.”

At least he could check visually for bloodstains. If he found any, the lab should be able to get DNA from the inside of the glove and determine who’d worn it.

He went to work on the pile. Lots of dirt, a few food stains, but nothing that looked like blood. Cordelia returned to her sorting. Halfway through his task, he said casually, “By the way, turns out you weren’t quite straight with me last night. I have a witness says you left your table right after Jake went up.”

He had her inconspicuously in his sights as he spoke. She froze and went as white as the fake ermine wrap she was folding. After a split second she let out that silvery laugh again. “Of course. I had to go up and make certain everything was in place. Didn’t I say so?”

“No, ma’am. You said—or at least strongly implied—you stayed at the table till it was time to dismiss everybody upstairs.”

She waved a beringed hand. “A simple oversight, Lieutenant. You must forgive me. I was distraught. We all were. Such a tragedy.” For a second he thought she was going to bring her hand to her brow, but that would have been too stagy even for her. She smoothed her hair instead. “But after all, what difference does it make where I was? The poor boy simply fell down the stairs—didn’t he?”

“I’m afraid there’s a little more to it than that. We’re assuming homicide.”

Cordelia’s eyes went wide. She clutched the wrap to her chest. “Homicide! You mean murder? Oh, that poor, poor boy! Oh, Lieutenant, whatever I can do to help—his murderer must be brought to justice.” She gazed at him with soulful eyes.

He gritted his teeth to keep from biting her head off and took up his notebook and pen. “Just tell me anything you might have left out last night. What exactly did you do when you went upstairs the first time? Who did you see and where?”

She darted her tongue out over her lips. “Let me think. Oh, yes, I went up the back stairs—just to be inconspicuous to the guests, you know. I didn’t see anyone on the stairs or in the hall. I went into the master bedroom and then into the stairwell to make sure Jake was in position.” A pink flush came and went on her heavily made-up cheeks. “He was, all prepared, so I came back down—the back stairs again—and looked into the library to be sure all my cast members had left their table. Then I went to the different rooms and made my announcement.”

“You didn’t see anyone else? Besides Jake?”

“I heard some of the cast coming up as I left the bedroom, but I didn’t turn to see who. And some of the waiters were busy in the kitchen, of course. But I saw no one else.”

Luke flipped his notebook shut and slipped it into his back pocket. Her story was plausible on the face of it, but she wasn’t a good enough actor to convince him she wasn’t still hiding something. Not necessarily murder, but something. Maybe Emily could worm it out of her.

*   *   *

Jeremiah didn’t show up Monday morning; nor did he call to explain. Roman appeared, along with another guy, so Emily sent them up to repair the roof, which Roman assured her he could handle without Jeremiah’s supervision. A possible murderer on her roof made her less nervous than one inside her house.

Emily settled down to read Jane Eyre for a while. But as she read of Jane’s restlessness toward the end of her time at Lowood, her own restlessness grew too strong to bear. If only she could help with the investigation. But she had no clue where to begin, and she didn’t feel like asking Luke at this point.

She had to do something active or go mad. Maybe she could begin the redecorating process. She’d need Katie’s help with that. Not finding her in the house, she slogged her way across the still-muddy lawn to Katie’s apartment.

As she raised her hand to knock, she heard voices from inside. Katie’s and another girl’s—faint and weepy. One of her sisters? She paused with her fist poised, but couldn’t make out any words.

Chiding herself for even attempting to eavesdrop, she knocked. Instead of calling her usual cheerful “Come in,” Katie came to the door, opening it only the width of her own body. “What’s up, Mrs. C?”

“I thought we might get started on the redecorating. If you’re not too busy.” Emily tried to be inconspicuous about peering over Katie’s shoulder. Was that a blond head on the couch?

“Oh—oh, sure. Abby and I were just talking. Give me a minute and I’ll be over?”

“Abby could come, too. I’d be happy to pay her for the day—there’s plenty to do.” Luke had mentioned Abby had been less than forthcoming when he questioned her. In the course of a day working together, perhaps Emily could get her to be more frank.

“Um—I don’t—”

Abby’s voice cut her off. “It’s okay, Katie. I’d like to help.”

“Well—all right. Lizzie’s napping, so I’ll have to take the baby monitor.”

Back at the house, the three of them wiped their feet on the kitchen mat. “Where do you want to start?” Katie asked.

“Let’s start with the Dickens room. No furniture to move out.” That room’s serviceable but rather generic bedroom suite had already been moved into Katie’s apartment.

“What do we need to do in here?” Abby’s mouselike voice piped up.

“We’ll start by taking down the drapes and stripping the wallpaper. That’ll probably be enough for today. Then we’ll need to hang new paper and wax the floor. The furniture will come down from the Montgomery room when it’s all ready.”

Katie brought in a stepladder and began taking the heavy brown canvas drapes off their hooks. Emily and Abby set to work on the wallpaper, a prim brown-and-beige stripe, undoubtedly chosen by no-nonsense Agnes Beech. Emily, who did not do ladders, peeled back a lower corner, expecting to see bare wall underneath. Instead, she found another layer of paper—this one a faded daisy pattern that had once, no doubt, been bright and gay.

Her heart misgiving her, she peeled the corner of the daisy paper as well. Under that was a tone-on-tone blue, and under that again, a subdued floral stripe. Under the stripe, she at last found bare plaster.

“Oh, dear. I wasn’t expecting this,” Emily said as the reality hit her. “I thought it would just be the one layer.” She turned to Katie. “I suppose we could just paper over it again.”

Katie picked at the strip next to the window. The top layer came away easily, crumbling in her hand. “It’s too fragile. This top layer must have been here for years. If we paper over it, it won’t stick worth beans.”

Emily sighed, feeling her earlier restless energy drain out of her fingertips into the layers of wallpaper. “All right. Here we go.”

They pulled and scraped for an hour without finishing the first wall. Emily forced herself to make small talk, trying to draw Abby out, but received mostly monosyllabic replies. Then a cry sounded from the baby monitor. “There’s Lizzie,” Katie said, putting down her putty knife and dusting off her hands. “I’ll get her, and then I think it’s about time for lunch, don’t you?”

Emily gratefully agreed. She and Abby bent close over one particularly stubborn section of wall where the layers of paper had glued themselves together into a pulpy mass.

“I’m a little worried about Katie,” Emily said as soon as she heard the back door close. “Don’t you think she seems, well, tense?”

Abby glanced up at her, then down again. “Wouldn’t you be if you were suspected of murder?” She added almost inaudibly, “And couldn’t even remember whether you’d done it?”

“Surely you don’t think Katie could be guilty? I can’t imagine her killing anyone, can you?”

Abby’s knuckles whitened on her putty knife. “Not normally. Of course not. But—” She bit her lip and tears came to her eyes.

“But what?”

“She’s—always protected—” Abby clamped her mouth shut and shook her head so violently, her whole body followed suit. “No. I can’t talk about it.”

Emily put a motherly arm around the girl’s thin shoulders. “Abby, you know I love Katie, don’t you? Like my own daughter. I won’t let anything bad happen to her, no matter what. But hiding the truth won’t help her. Or you. If you know something about the murder, please, I beg you, tell me what it is.”

Abby dropped her knife, covered her eyes, and leaned into Emily’s embrace. Her frail body heaved in Emily’s arms. Emily eased them both down to sit on the floor and held Abby until she calmed. She dug a clean tissue from her pocket and gave it to the girl. “What happened that night, Abby? What did you see?”

Abby blew her nose and took a deep breath. “Jake had been—after me. Just trying to get me to go out with him, you know? And I liked him. I didn’t know about—Katie never told anybody about that till after. I never knew who Lizzie’s father was.”

She shuddered. “To think I might have—well, anyway. He asked me to meet him in the stairwell that night. I watched until he went up and then I slipped out, up the back stairs. I went into the bedroom and the stairwell door was open. I went up to the door and I saw—” She took a gasping breath and her tears began again.

Emily made her voice as gentle as if she were talking to baby Lizzie. “What did you see?”

“I saw—her. That drama woman. That old, fat, ugly—” Abby darted a sidelong glance at Emily, who was quite aware of having at least a decade and more than a few pounds on Cordelia Fitzgerald. “Sorry, it’s just—she was way too old for Jake. And she had her arms around him.”

Emily absorbed this information. It didn’t greatly surprise her, but it certainly threw a new light on the situation. “Did you hear them say anything?”

“I didn’t stick around to hear. I felt sick. I ran out of there and down the stairs as fast as I could go. Katie was in the kitchen. I ran straight into her arms and blabbed out the whole story.”

What would Katie have felt at that moment, learning for the first time that her rapist had been pursuing her own beloved sister—a sister even more fragile and innocent than she herself had been?

Emily knew how she would have felt in Katie’s place. Murderous.