• twenty •

I was going back to Thornfield: but how long was I to stay there? Not long; of that I was sure.

—Jane Eyre

Soon after he arrived at the office, groggy from a near-sleepless night, Luke got a call from headquarters. The autopsy report was ready. Quick work. But of course a county like Tillamook didn’t have a lineup of bodies like they would in Portland, for instance. Medical examiner was a part-time job around here and a murder victim a welcome diversion. The labs would take longer—Tillamook County didn’t have a forensic lab of its own; they had to outsource and wait their turn.

Luke drove to the morgue so he could go over the results with the ME in person. George Tomlinson moved in the same social circles as the Newhouses and made sure everyone knew it. Luke always had to fight a sense of inferiority in his presence—and beat down the defensiveness that went with it. They were two competent professionals doing their jobs. If Tomlinson chose to talk down to Luke like he was a raw recruit straight out of a cattle barn, that was his problem, not Luke’s.

Luke strode into the morgue and put out his hand to shake Tomlinson’s, then pulled it back as he realized the doctor’s gloved hands weren’t fit for shaking. Great, he’d put his very first foot wrong. Tomlinson bit back a smile, but not before Luke saw it.

“Here he is, Lieutenant.” The doctor lifted a sheet off a body on a table, already barely recognizable as Jake Newhouse. Once the life had gone out of a face—no color in the cheeks, no twinkle in the eye, no smirk in the mouth—it was tough, especially with a young kid, to tell one lump of flesh from another. Hotshot doctor and humble lawman, Casanova and lonely nerd, all came down to lumps of flesh in the end. And if they ended up in this morgue, those lumps all had angry red Y-shaped scars roughly stitched together across their unmoving chests.

Luke shook off his morbid thoughts. “What’d you find?”

“As you can see, there were two potentially fatal wounds: the deeper puncture wound to the thorax, and the blunt trauma to the back of the skull. My primary job was to determine which of those wounds actually killed him.”

Luke nodded. “We figured the puncture wound was made by that knife—” He nodded toward the evidence bag on the counter. “And the head trauma resulted from falling down a spiral staircase. That consistent with what you found?”

Tomlinson continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “The puncture wound severed the coronary artery, causing severe bleeding. The victim would have died of blood loss within a few minutes. The bruising all over the body occurred while the victim was still alive. The amount of blood in the hair also suggests the head wound was sustained before death. But that wound would likely not have killed him instantly. It’s most probable he died of blood loss from the wound.”

“Any sign of the victim being pushed down the stairs?”

“Look at this.” Tomlinson pointed to the stab wound, which lay horizontally between two ribs. The skin had closed around it, but the gash was surrounded by a purple bruise that extended about a half inch from all its borders.

“So the killer pushed the knife all the way into him,” Luke said. “That bruise is from the handguard.”

Tomlinson assessed Luke as if he were a pupil who turned out to be brighter than he’d expected. “Exactly. If the victim happened to be standing at the top of the stairs when he was struck, the impact could have toppled him.”

“We’re looking at a pretty strong killer, then?”

“Not necessarily. A woman could have done it in the heat of passion.”

Heat of passion likely applied in this instance, woman or man. “Can you tell me anything about the attacker? Height, left-or right-handed?”

“Probably right-handed, but I can’t be certain. The weapon entered the body square on. Remarkable, really. Almost mathematical precision.”

“So would you say the killer knew what he was doing, anatomically speaking?”

“There I’d say no. His—or her—first blow was quite ineffective. And the second—”

“Wait a minute. First blow?”

“Well, yes. I assumed you’d seen it.” He pointed to a smaller gash that ran vertically a few inches above the left nipple. “This one hit a rib. It would have bled, but not copiously. It didn’t do much damage.”

Luke mentally kicked himself. How had he missed that? And Sam? Maybe she’d seen it but assumed he had, too, and didn’t think to mention it. He could see in Tomlinson’s eyes he’d lost that tiny bit of respect he’d gained by guessing what caused the bruise. “And the second blow?”

“As I said, that blow severed an artery but did not come especially close to the heart. So I would say the killer was not trained in either medicine or killing.”

All of that got Luke exactly nowhere. None of the suspects was a physician or an ex-soldier or a secret agent—at least, not that he knew of—so the amateur placement of the wound didn’t rule any of them out. Left-handed Cordelia Fitzgerald was unlikely, but not impossible. And the precision of the angle—either Roman or Devon would have a carpenter’s or cabinetmaker’s eye and might line up the blade without thinking. But there was no reason any of the others might not have done the same by pure accident.

“What about blood spatter? Would the attacker necessarily have gotten blood on his hands or gloves? On his clothing?”

“As I said, the first wound would have bled but not spurted. It’s likely the killer would have blood on his hands or gloves, but not certain. There’s no reason to think he’d have blood elsewhere on his clothing unless he was standing quite close, almost embracing.”

“But the second wound would have bled?”

“Not hugely unless the knife was removed before death. Since it did strike an artery, there would likely have been some seepage around the knife. Once it was pulled out, blood would have spurted with decreasing force until death occurred, and then the bleeding would have stopped.” Tomlinson stripped off his gloves and moved to the sink. “You’d know better than I how much blood was at the scene. The amount I saw on his clothing suggests the knife was removed before death, but probably not long before.”

But the amount of blood on Katie’s clothing told another story. She could well have pulled the knife out of him while he was still alive. Jake probably hadn’t had more than one good spurt left in him by that time. But most of it hit Katie’s apron. No wonder the girl had blocked the scene from her memory.

Emily would never forgive him if he arrested Katie. And he’d lose his almost-adopted daughter as well.

Luke stared at Jake Newhouse’s savaged body and almost wished he could trade places with him. His own future was looking bleaker by the hour.

*   *   *

Emily returned exhausted from her interview with Mildred Newhouse. Witnessing all that emotion had drained her, and besides, her whole body ached from her exertions the day before. She gave herself the day off from redecorating and retired to the library with Jane Eyre. By early afternoon she’d read up to the terrible revelation of the existence of Rochester’s crazed but living wife. She wasn’t sorry to be interrupted when the phone rang.

Her tenant in Portland was on the line. “Emily? Lillian. Listen, we have a problem here. The pipes in the bathroom sprang a leak and soaked through the living room ceiling. We were out and didn’t catch it till all the plaster had come down.”

Emily groaned. “I’ll call the insurance rep. He’ll have to look at it first before any repairs can be done.”

“We had to shut off the water completely. How long will all that take?”

“Heavens, I don’t know, but it probably won’t be quick. The insurance should cover it if you need to go to a hotel for the duration.”

Lillian grumbled a bit, but finally accepted there was nothing more Emily could do. Emily called her home insurance agent and explained the situation.

“I can get an adjuster over there first thing tomorrow morning to assess the damage. But I’ll need you to meet him if the tenants are clearing out.”

Emily would have to drive to Portland tonight and stay over with Marguerite if she didn’t want to be up and out at some ungodly hour tomorrow. Well, there was nothing for it. “I’ll be there.”

She made arrangements with Marguerite, who said cryptically, “I told you to come to Portland, and voilà! You are coming.”

“So what did you do, sneak into my house and loosen a join on my pipes just to get me up there?”

“Moi? Certainement pas. It is destiny, mon amie. You are meant to be here now.”

Emily hated to leave with everything still so uncertain. Even though she’d extracted what she believed to be the truth from Abby and Cordelia, and Luke himself seemed to have eliminated Matthew and Devon, they still had no real proof against Roman. He had motive, means, and opportunity, but so did Katie. Only Emily’s instinct—or, it could be argued, her blind affection—told her Roman was guilty and Katie innocent. And Luke didn’t seem to share that instinct. What if he arrested Katie in her absence?

And then there was Roman himself. In the house with Katie. A man whose unhealthy passion for the girl had already possibly—probably—almost certainly driven him to murder. And herself not there to protect her girl.

Inconceivable.

She sent Katie upstairs to ask Jeremiah to come down to the library. “I have to go to Portland for a few days, and I’m nervous about having Roman in the house with Katie while I’m not here. I’d like you to let him go.”

Jeremiah’s bushy brows drew together. “Roman? He’s the best worker I have.”

“I’m sorry, but he has feelings toward Katie that make me very uncomfortable. He’ll have to go, at least for the time I’m away. After that, we’ll see.”

Jeremiah’s already grim face went gray as death. “Can’t put the girl in danger. I’ll get rid of him right away.”

Emily imparted her plans to Katie. “Oh, Mrs. C, do you really have to go? I don’t like being alone in the house with—them.” She cut her eyes upward toward the third floor.

“It’s all right, I’ve told Jeremiah to let Roman go. At least until I get back.”

Katie twisted a lock of hair. “Well—all right. I guess. Although Mr. Edwards is kind of creepy himself.”

“Agreed, but he’d never do anything to hurt you. He seems almost as anxious to protect you as I am.”

She gave Katie a reassuring hug, then as an afterthought, called Luke.

“I have to go to Portland for a couple days. There’s an issue with my house I have to take care of in person. You’ll—keep an eye on Katie while I’m gone, won’t you?” The irony of asking for protection for Katie from the man who stood in the position of greatest threat to her just now did not escape Emily. She hoped Luke could hear between the words of her request her real message: And don’t arrest her while I’m gone.

“So it isn’t going to Portland you object to—just going there with me.” He spoke teasingly, but she could hear an undercurrent of actual hurt. Too bad.

“This isn’t a pleasure trip. I have to go. Oh, and I’ve told Jeremiah to lay Roman off for the duration.”

“Wise move. Don’t worry, I’ll look in on Katie and make sure she’s okay.” Between the words of his assurance she heard, And make sure she doesn’t skip town while you’re not looking. Why, Lord, why did that pipe have to burst right now? It wasn’t even winter yet.

She packed quickly. Dark came early at this time of year, and she wanted to make Portland in daylight in case the weather was as bad there as it was here. She said her good-byes to Katie, Lizzie, and the cats, and drove off into the storm.

*   *   *

Emily reached Marguerite’s apartment in time for dinner. Marguerite was waiting with flowers on the table, a quiche in the oven, and a glass of wine in each hand. “I am sure you need this, chérie,” she said, handing Emily a glass.

Emily kicked off her shoes, flopped on the couch, and drank gratefully. “Do I ever.” She looked around the bright, spacious, white-walled room with its clean-lined furniture and subdued color scheme. An abstract painting hung on one wall, while clusters of black-and-white photographs in ebony frames were dotted about the rest of the room. “You know, Margot, I always used to think your style was a bit—well, sterile, no offense—but right now it seems really restful. Windy Corner is so—full. Not just of stuff, but of people and events and disturbances. I still love the place, but it’s good to have a break.”

Marguerite gave her a wise, slightly smug smile. “What did I tell you? You should listen to Marguerite. Marguerite knows what you need.”

“I guess she does.” She closed her eyes, sipped her wine, and thought of absolutely nothing while Marguerite put dinner on the table.

They talked of college politics, gossiped about mutual friends, touched on recent films Marguerite had seen and concerts she’d heard—Emily had hardly been inside a theater since moving to Stony Beach. Nostalgia for the life she’d left behind washed over her. She should have come up with Luke a couple of weeks ago. If she couldn’t find some way to integrate her two worlds, she’d always feel like half a person, whichever one she happened to be in. She went to bed resolving to find a way to spend a weekend with Luke in Portland as soon as this case was solved and life returned to normal. That is, assuming the case was solved to her satisfaction.

At eight o’clock the next morning she unlocked the door of her little Tudor cottage on Woodstock Boulevard. This act brought its own nostalgia, but before that feeling could take hold, she entered the living room—and saw utter chaos. A mound of disintegrated plaster covered the sopping rug. Somewhere under that mound, she suspected, lay the ruined remains of the antique coffee table she’d inherited from her maternal grandmother. Looking up, she could see the bare joists of the ceiling. Good thing she didn’t actually live here anymore.

The insurance adjuster came in right behind her, only pausing in the entryway to knock on the open door. He was already disheveled—comb-over flapping, shirttails dangling, tie askew—although this must have been his first appointment of the day. He shook her hand without introducing himself or even looking her in the eye, then proceeded immediately to the war zone. His head bobbed mournfully as he walked around the pile of plaster.

“Bad, oh, very bad,” he intoned. “This is going to cost a bundle. Yes, indeed. Quite a bundle.” His voice reminded Emily of Puddleglum from the Narnia stories. Any minute she expected him to start discoursing on fricasseed frogs and eel pie.

She followed him upstairs, where she glanced into the bedrooms and office while the adjuster addressed the ruined bathroom. Her tenants were no messier than she’d expected—average for two college instructors—but it gave her gut a peculiar wrench to see someone else’s belongings strewn about her own dear rooms. Maybe next year she’d keep the house empty so she could use it herself whenever she took the notion to come to town.

In an hour he was finished and on his cell phone, making arrangements for the repairs. “How long will it take?” Emily asked.

He shook his long-jawed head. “We’re looking at two weeks, maybe three,” he droned. “Lot of work to be done. Real plaster’s not a quick process. Or a cheap one.” He glared at her over his glasses. “You sure you won’t go for drywall?”

“No. I want the ceiling to look just as it did before. The whole house is plaster—one drywall ceiling would stand out as badly as a plate-glass window in this cottage.” All the windows still held their original diamond panes.

“I guess that’s your prerogative. The policy does say ‘restore to original condition.’” He spoke as if he prognosticated untold troubles arising from her decision.

“Will the policy cover my tenants staying in a hotel that long?”

“Beats me. Have to ask your agent about that. I only handle the damages.”

Emily steeled herself for a possible steep bill landing on her desk. On top of her own remodeling and redecorating, plus the catering and whatnot for the fundraiser, this was going to sting. At least no guests had asked for their money back after the genuine murder disrupted the party. Maybe they felt they’d gotten more than they paid for instead of less.

When the adjuster had left with a final mournful shake of his head, his comb-over waving like seaweed behind him, Emily checked her watch. This would be a good time to catch some of her colleagues between classes. She walked the block down the hill to campus and headed for the faculty common room.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t our prodigal sister come back to the fold at last.” Her department head, Richard McClintock, greeted her without moving from the coffee machine. At least he stood aside to let her pour herself a cup. “What’s the matter, did the millions run out? Or have the innumerable charms of small-town living paled for you already?”

With an effort Emily ignored his sarcasm. She couldn’t be certain she herself would have reacted with perfect grace and generous well-wishing if one of her colleagues had come into the fortune that fate had chosen to drop into her lap. Though she certainly would have made more of an effort to act the part. “I had an issue with my house here. Poor Lillian and Henry came home to a living room full of fallen plaster last night. I’m afraid they’ll be camping at a hotel for a couple of weeks while it all gets put back together.”

McClintock’s lip curled. “So even the mighty have their little troubles, eh?”

“And big ones.” She didn’t feel like telling him about recent events at Windy Corner, though. He’d probably find a way to make even the murder of a rapist on her property sound like some privilege of the wealthy.

She turned from him to examine the college magazines strewn about the table until a couple of other professors came in. These slighter acquaintances from other divisions made polite small talk, but clearly were no happier to see her there than McClintock was. Emily finished her coffee and took her leave. She might regret leaving Portland, but at least at this minute, she didn’t in the least regret leaving Reed.

A visit to Powell’s would wash the bad taste from her mouth. The “City of Books” that filled an entire block downtown would likely have a good selection of volumes on period decor, and maybe something on running a bed-and-breakfast—not exactly what she and Katie would be doing, but close enough that they could profit from others’ experience in that field.

Emily spent several happy hours browsing the shelves and perusing her selections in the small café, where patrons were allowed to bring in books, purchased or unpurchased, and to sit at the long communal tables as long as they pleased. She left with as many books as she could carry, well equipped to complete the transformation of Windy Corner into a writers’ retreat. Ah, she had missed Powell’s.

But she certainly had not missed downtown rush-hour traffic. Nor, really, downtown itself, which had become almost unbearably hip in recent years. Merely walking down the sidewalk past trendy boutiques and organic eateries, surrounded by skinny young people in tight black clothes with devices attached to their ears, made her feel old and hopelessly out-of-date. She had a sudden sharp pang of longing for Luke, who adored her exactly as she was—long swishy skirts, upswept hair, Luddite tendencies and all. And for the beach, where she could walk for miles in the early morning without encountering another human soul.

She’d promised Marguerite to stay another night; otherwise she would have headed back to Stony Beach there and then. Instead she turned her PT Cruiser back toward the southeast side of town. She just had time to catch Wednesday night vespers at St. Sergius. Her church was the most fundamental thing about Portland she still missed.