Merry was drinking café au lait in Peter’s bed when Howie texted her the next morning. She was supposed to watch the Firecracker 5K—a July Fourth sprint along Monomoy for Peter and several hundred other early-risers. Forty-five minutes later she pulled up at Spencer Murphy’s house instead.
Andre Henrissaint met her at the door.
“He’s lying down in his room, but he’s not sleeping,” he said. “Elliot’s sitting with him.”
“He came home last night, I understand?”
“Around ten-thirty.” Andre shrugged slightly. “He turned up at American Seasons. They said he was hallucinating—reliving his escape from Laos, I think. He couldn’t remember how to get home, but he remembered this address, oddly enough. So they gave him a drink and an order of duck breast to go, and put him in a taxi.”
“The mind is a strange thing.”
“Very. I say that, and I’m trained as a psychologist.”
“Have you told Mr. Murphy about his daughter?”
“Several times. He forgets.”
Merry followed Andre to Spence Murphy’s bedroom, which was on the main floor. More reason, she thought, that Nora’s body had gone undetected on the roof—once she disappeared and her room was tidied, neither her father nor his housekeeper had any reason to go upstairs. They resumed their habits of living among a few hundred square feet of the enormous old house: kitchen, bedroom, bath, and the small den Merry glimpsed through a doorway, lined with bookshelves and littered with photographs from Murphy’s reporting days. Nora had been undisturbed in her open-air tomb.
Andre paused in the doorway.
Spencer Murphy’s bedroom had once been something else—a sunporch in the 1950s, maybe—and only recently converted to a main-floor master bedroom as its owner’s balance and strength grew weaker. What had once been screened panels were now glass, lined with floor-to-ceiling drapes. French doors similar to the living room’s led out to the back deck. An adjoining powder room had been converted with a drop-in stall shower. There was a spectacular view of the harbor.
Elliot was seated in a wing chair near his father’s bed, a mug of coffee balanced on his knee. The look of bewildered strain Merry had last registered on his face was gone. He seemed placid this morning and, if anything, bored.
“He’s bringing Laney,” he was saying to his father. “Not Kate. Kate doesn’t live with them anymore.”
“Why not?” Spencer Murphy asked. He hadn’t seemed to notice Andre standing in the doorway.
“They’re divorced, Dad.”
“Since when?”
“A year ago. Remember—you knew this at Mom’s funeral. I’m putting Laney in Mom’s old sewing room.”
“Can’t she sleep with her parents? We could set up the crib.”
“Not at her age.”
“A cot, then. She’ll have nightmares if she’s alone.”
“Dad, she’s twenty-four years old. She doesn’t want to sleep with either of her parents.”
Elliot glanced in exasperation at the doorway, saw Merry behind Andre, and set down his mug. “Detective Folger. Good morning. He found his way home, as you can see.”
“Who did?” Spencer Murphy demanded. He lifted his chin pugnaciously. “That Negro doesn’t live here. I’ve never seen him before in my life.”
There was a hideous silence. Merry felt her face flush with shock and embarrassment. She glanced at the man standing rigidly beside her. Then he turned and left.
“Andre—” Elliot surged after him. “Dad—”
“Go,” Merry murmured. “I’ll stay with your father.”
She walked over to the bedside and offered her hand to Spencer Murphy. “Good morning, sir. I’m Meredith Folger. With the Nantucket Police. I understand you got a little lost yesterday.”
He grasped her fingers politely. “Then you understand wrong, young lady. I was right here at home all day.”
“I see. We were a little worried, sir, because we found your car down on New Whale Street.”
The brown eyes, dimmed with the gray film of age, flickered slightly. “Must have left it there. I’ll pick it up later.”
“Yes, sir. How are you feeling this morning?”
“All right. How are you?”
“I’m well. Could I ask you a few questions?”
“If you like. But I’m usually the one that does the interview.”
“I know that, sir.” Merry took out her laptop and turned it on.
“I don’t use one of those things, though. Never have. Can’t type. Barbara does all my typing for me.”
Barbara, Merry remembered, was the dead wife’s name.
“She’s a little tired this morning and asked if I’d take notes,” she said.
“I don’t mind. What did you say your name was?”
“Folger. I’m with the Nantucket Police.”
“Ralph Folger runs the police.”
“He’s my grandfather, sir.”
“Grandfather! Not old enough to be a grandfather. He and Sylvie just have the one boy, yet.”
At the sound of her grandmother’s name, Merry felt her throat constrict.
“I understand your daughter, Nora, paid you a visit a few weeks ago,” she said.
“Nora?” Spence shrugged slightly. “Not here now. Haven’t seen Nora in a long time. Had some trouble with Barbara. Took off in a huff. Barbara says we shouldn’t worry—she’ll be back when she’s hungry. Kids that age always are. Say they’re running away, and they’re back by dinnertime.”
“Mr. Murphy, your daughter was staying here in the house a few weeks ago. Do you remember that? She sat outside on the back lawn with you and told you stories? Made you Asian food for dinner?”
“She had a way of doing street noodles, like her mother. Fish sauce and curry. Scallops instead of shrimp.”
“Sounds good.”
The filmy eyes flickered again. “Nora,” he said. “Talking about the old days in Laos. She got me smoking again. Do you have a light?”
“No, sir, I’m afraid I don’t. So you remember she was here?”
“I do.” He sat a little higher against his bed pillows, his voice suddenly firm. “We had some great talks. She’d been in Southeast Asia. Reporting there. None of the old fellas are still around, of course, but I told her what it was like when I was there. She’s part Lao, you know.”
The mind, Merry thought, was definitely weird. Spencer Murphy’s seemed to flash on and off like a Christmas bulb.
“We found Nora yesterday on the roof walk, Mr. Murphy. Your son Elliot told you that she seems to have died there?”
He closed his eyes, slowly and painfully. He drew a deep breath. “Yes. I remember. Yes.”
“Do you have any idea when she went up on the roof?”
“Every day,” he said.
“Every day?”
“It’s her place. She loves the roof.”
“Was she happy while she was here?”
“Of course! Nora loves the island. She’s going to stay. Wants to write a book.”
“When did you last see her, Mr. Murphy?”
He opened his eyes and looked straight at Merry. “Yesterday?” he asked. “This morning? She’s a big girl now. She comes and goes.”
Merry found Andre and Elliot in the kitchen. Elliot was rinsing dishes. Andre was pouring coffee beans into the top of an elaborate machine that seemed out of place in the old-fashioned galley. Neither was speaking.
“Was your father physically okay when he returned last night?” Merry asked.
“He was fine,” Elliot replied. “Exhausted, but otherwise unharmed. He had absolutely no idea where he’d been all day. He was babbling about jungles and knives. The old Pathet Lao story again.” He shook the water off a dish and placed it on the counter. Then he reached for a towel and dried his hands. “My brother, David, is due any minute. He’s Dad’s executor and power of attorney—we figured it had to be the kid who was physically closest to Nantucket. Dave can get here from Boston in an hour.”
“You informed him of Nora’s death?”
“Oh, yeah,” Elliot said. “But he’s really coming because of Dad. I mean, Nora’s dead and everything, but who knows when the coroner will release her body? You haven’t even flown it to Bourne yet, right?”
“I was waiting for your father to turn up,” Merry said. “I thought he might ask to see Nora.”
Elliot shook his head. “I don’t think he’s fully grasped that she’s dead. And I doubt he will, under the circumstances. You might ask David about that, once he’s here.”
“Your father is certainly confused,” Merry said. “But his memory seems to shift in and out. He remembered Nora telling him about her reporting life, for instance, but couldn’t pinpoint the last time he saw her.”
“Does it matter?” Elliot asked. “We know which day she disappeared, from Roseline.”
“I was hoping Mr. Murphy could tell me something about Nora’s mood in her final days. Her plans, if she had any. This idea of moving in with him to write a book, for instance. His observations might help us figure out if she was unhappy enough to harm herself—or help us to rule that out.”
“Suicide.”
“Yes,” Merry agreed. “We’ll have a better idea what killed her once the coroner’s report is filed. But in the meantime—if your father happens to remember anything that you think might be relevant, Mr. Murphy, would you write it down?”
“Sure. I’ll let you know.”
“Would you like some coffee, Detective?” Andre asked.
“I’d love some,” Merry said gratefully. She leaned against the counter, watching his deft hands. He had beautiful fingers, long and tapering, with almond-shaped nails.
Andre reached for the bag of beans; almost empty. “I brought this from New York, but we’ve gone through it quickly. Late nights and early mornings will do that.”
“There should be more in the cupboard,” Elliot suggested. “Not Dad’s percolator stuff, but the beans David got when he gave him the machine.”
“You didn’t bring that from New York, too?” Merry asked.
“No. It was a Christmas gift. David likes to give people things he wants to use himself. He hates Dad’s percolator. Dad, of course, has never learned to use David’s machine, which automatically grinds the beans. Dave’s a little obsessed with coffee.”
“I get it.”
“In cases of dementia,” Andre said, “one of the first cognitive skills to wane is mastery of the new. Spence was never going to use this machine. But kudos to Dave for trying.”
He rummaged in the cupboard to the right of the stove and succeeded in finding a Nantucket Coffee Roasters’ bag. “Chester’s Blend,” he said. “Named after the company dog, apparently.” He scooped out some beans. And then frowned.
“Too old?” Elliot asked.
“Maybe. What are these?”
Elliot leaned over Andre’s shoulder and stared at the scoop of dark brown beans. So did Merry. Among them were lighter, caramel-colored beans she didn’t recognize. “A different roast?” she suggested.
“I don’t think that’s even coffee,” Andre said. “It’s more like a seed.”
“You can pick them out,” Elliot said. “It’s still usable.”
“I would hope,” said a voice from the doorway. “It’s a brand-new coffeemaker.”
Merry turned.
“David!” Elliot said with relief. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
The man in the doorway was taller, leaner, and older-looking than Merry expected. But his resemblance to Spencer Murphy was uncanny. She remembered television images of the reporter from two decades before; he might have been this man, brought forward in time. By David Murphy’s side was a sturdy-looking young woman with red hair hanging in waves down her back. Her eyes were gray and her skin was dead white, overlaid with Elliot’s freckles.
“Hey, Laney,” Andre said.
She slipped away from her father and hugged Andre fiercely.
“And who is this?” David asked.
“I’m Detective Meredith Folger,” she replied. “Nantucket Police.”
He offered his hand. It was cool and dry. “They needed you to make coffee?”
Elliot laughed. “Hardly. She’s about to arrest us all for parental neglect.”
“We’re a little confused.” Andre passed David the bag of coffee.
“Chester’s Blend. I bought it at Christmas.” David sifted through the beans with his fingers. “Somebody’s stuck dried apricot seeds in here.”
“Apricot seeds?” Merry repeated.
“Yes.” His eyes flicked up to meet hers. “They’re the dried kernels found inside apricot pits. A trendy snack of my daughter’s. Detective, this is DeLaney Murphy.”
Merry shook the girl’s hand.
“Laney brought the seeds with her to Nantucket. She’s the family health nut.”
“Not really,” the girl said quickly. “I just thought they might help Nana. A year ago, when she was sick. They’re supposed to cure cancer.”
Her voice drifted to silence on the last word; her expression was miserable.
David set the coffee on the counter. “I guess Dad confused the two. Poor bastard. He’s really losing it, isn’t he?”
“He lost Nora on the roof for a month,” Elliot said.
Laney’s eyes widened. “What?”
“Never mind.” David Murphy was dismissive. “I’d better go talk to him. Is there anything more we can do for you, Detective? I came in for a family conference, as you’ve probably guessed, and my time is valuable.”
“So is mine,” she replied, “so I’ll be brief. Your sister’s remains are in the Nantucket Cottage Hospital morgue, Mr. Murphy. We delayed medevacking them to the coroner in Bourne until your father was found, in the event he wished to see his daughter. Would you like me to delay that transfer any longer, or should we proceed with your sister’s autopsy?”
“Proceed,” David said.
“Okay. The coroner should release your sister’s remains for burial by Tuesday or Wednesday morning. I realize it’s a holiday weekend, and you may not be able to plan a funeral immediately, but you should arrange to receive—”
“Can’t she just be cremated in Bourne?” Elliot suggested.
“Elliot,” Andre said tightly, “if it’s her ashes you want returned, you need to set that up. And plan a funeral. Spence loved her.”
“I’m surprised you can still call him that. After what he called you.”
“I know Spence,” Andre retorted. “That wasn’t him talking, back there. Spence is gone.”
“Is there anything else, Detective?” David asked impatiently.
Merry handed him her card. “Until the coroner’s report is in, there’s little we can do to pinpoint the cause of your sister’s death. As for your father—I’d suggest you find his keys, pick up his car on New Whale Street, and make sure he never drives again.”
There was a brief silence. “The keys were in his pants pocket,” Elliot offered. “I can get the car.”
“That’s a job for you, Laney,” David said. “You’ll enjoy the walk into town. Exercise.”
He turned back into the hall, heading for Spence Murphy’s bedroom without another word.
“He can be such a prick sometimes,” Elliot breathed. “My apologies, Detective. The Murphys are covering themselves in glory this week, aren’t they? We’ll put it down to grief.”
He raised his hand, as though to guide Merry to the front door, but she was already ahead of him.
Grief, she thought, was the very last thing any of the Murphys seemed to feel.