Merry drove straight from Mason Farms that Sunday morning to Steamboat Wharf, at the end of Broad Street, where the 8:45 car ferry from Hyannis was due. It was Fireworks Day, July 3rd, with a full thirty-six hours to go before the holiday was officially over. Police reinforcements were arriving from all over America, as Nantucketers called the mainland, rolling off the car ferry in marked SUVs. They would be deployed to control the weekend traffic and chaos along with the Nantucket Police, the Community Service Officers, and members of the Nantucket Sheriff’s Department.
Merry stood on the tarmac as the cars exited the lot onto Broad Street, and checked off the reserves on her clipboard. Her orders were to dispatch them to the access roads leading to Nobadeer Beach, where the party that had started the day before was still going strong. But she also decided to send a contingent out to Eel Point, between Dionis and Madaket, in case the clever band of revelers spontaneously retreated to alternative ground. It was the sort of intuitive adjustment an islander would predict. Bob Pocock lacked sufficient Nantucket history to anticipate his enemies.
She was staring after the last of the SUVs when the chief walked up to her.
“Sir.”
“Made any progress on your cyanide poisoning, Detective?”
Pocock had said he didn’t want to hear about the case until July Fourth weekend was over, but clearly he expected an update. Anything to keep her off balance.
“Yes,” Merry said. “You’ll have my report on Tuesday morning. As you requested.”
“I’d rather have it now.”
He turned away, expecting her to follow him. With a sigh, Merry handed her clipboard and radio to Howie and trailed after the chief. He led her to the pilings that fronted the parking lot and turned to face her, his thumbs in his belt loops. The sun on his skin exposed a map of faint lines that would be visibly white if he ever tanned. But it occurred to Merry that she’d never seen Pocock outdoors before. He was whiter than she was in the middle of July.
Merry waited for him to break the silence.
“Well?”
“Phil Potts circumvented the security controls on the victim’s laptop. She was a journalist who’d been researching an investigative piece in Laos. Turns out that the book outline on Nora Murphy’s computer is for a tell-all biography of her father, Spencer Murphy. She planned to expose his first bestseller—In the Cage of the Pathet Lao—as a complete fabrication. Bullshit. Lies.”
Pocock frowned. “Wasn’t that book made into a movie?”
“Yes. It’s the basis of Spencer Murphy’s public fame and success. It’s why he’s a national hero.”
“So he shut her up,” Pocock said, “with poisoned coffee.”
“I’m not so sure.”
The chief exhaled in frustration. “Yeah, well—you’re not convinced this is even a murder case. Still think the woman died on her father’s roof by accident?”
“It’s a possibility I have to consider.”
“This is an open-and-shut case, Detective,” he said. “You’ve got a victim. You’ve got a man with the means, opportunity, and motive to kill her. And you’re not moving on charges?”
“Spencer Murphy suffers from dementia.”
“Let his lawyer deal with that when he defends him in criminal court.”
“His lawyer’s not my concern, Chief.” Merry leaned forward to meet him eye-to-eye. “My concern is that a man who can’t even remember his daughter was in the house—who has to be reminded repeatedly that she’s dead—is unlikely to have retained the details of her research and plan to expose him. If Nora Murphy even shared those details with him. We don’t know whether she did. But I doubt Spencer Murphy is capable of executing a complex and subtle plan to kill her.”
“There’s nothing subtle about cyanide.”
“But its delivery can be.” Merry tried to rein in her irritation. “The cyanide was organic, a nitrile known as amygdalin. It derives from dried apricot seeds, which Murphy’s wife used as a natural cancer treatment and left in the pantry after her death. The seeds were accidentally or deliberately mixed with the coffee beans that produced the victim’s fatal drink. To murder her deliberately, the killer would have to have mastered a multi-step automatic coffee machine that ground its own beans. Most of us are capable of that; but I’m not convinced Spencer Murphy is.”
“So he’s snowed you, too,” Pocock said.
Merry stared at him. “What?”
“You tell me this guy built his whole life on lies. Now he’s convinced you he’s demented. You don’t see a pattern there?”
“The man went missing for ten hours Friday. He forgot he had a car parked in town. He was raving about the Pathet Lao when he was found.”
“—but you said the Pathet Lao story is crap.”
Merry was silent.
Pocock studied the line of cars idling before the open maw of the MV Eagle’s hold. “Maybe Murphy’s as good an actor as he is a storyteller, Merry. Maybe this ‘dementia’ is a lie like everything else.”
Merry frowned. Pocock had never used her first name before.
“So what should I do? Have him cognitively evaluated?”
“That’ll happen anyway when he’s charged.”
“I have no proof of Murphy’s guilt,” Merry said. “I never will. Aside from a confession—which any counsel worth his salt would dismantle in court.”
“Try some shock tactics, Detective. Confront the bastard with the truth, and see how he responds.”
“Really?”
The chief stared at her mockingly. “Really. Do you always wear kid gloves when you investigate a murder?”
Kate Murphy fingered a blueberry- and teal-colored angora throw at Nantucket Looms’s new location on Main Street. Laney was examining some pillows a few feet away. They had slipped out half an hour ago while Elliot and David were playing tennis, to catch a glimpse of what Laney called the Real Nantucket. They’d had coffee and pastry at The Bean on India Street—although Laney had insisted on her usual green tea—then strolled around the shops with the rest of the lighthearted summer crowd. Kate had forgotten how much she loved the old brick and cobblestoned town. How special it was, with its utter lack of national chains, neon lights, or even traffic signals. She would give anything to return when David wasn’t in residence at Step Above—rent a bike and go all over the island off-season, to revisit places and moods she had once loved. Perhaps if Laney did stay with Spence—
But her heart sank suddenly at the thought. Spence a year ago would have been a lot of fun, with his unquenchable talent for storytelling and his boisterous love of life. Spence today . . . Spence today had asked her repeatedly whether she was still nursing in Boston. Kate had answered with infinite patience. By the fourth iteration, she simplified her reply. Not anymore, she offered, instead of the tangled reminders of all he’d once known about her divorce, upheaval, settlements, relocation.
Kate had been so sure that Spence understood everything about her plans for the future. She’d told him all about the organization she had in mind—a place where her background as a nurse and her administrative talent would be equally valuable. He’d encouraged her to move on with her life at Barbara’s funeral, where the memory of roads not taken seemed to occupy his mind. In fact, it was his implicit promise of financial support that had given Kate the courage to leave David. But Spence’s mental decline had accelerated in ways she hadn’t expected. It was obvious he had no memory of her plans or his promises. And his emotions were increasingly unpredictable.
His anger last night had been a shock. She saw again in her mind how Spence had risen from the Windsor chair in the front hall and hurled himself at David.
“Are you accusing me,” he’d roared, “of killing Nora?”
There had been no way around it, then. Spence had charged into the living room and demanded explanations from all of them. They had tried, as best they could, to calm him—Elliot insisting that Nora had simply died and no one knew why—but he was in one of his rare lucid passages, fresh from a brief rest, and he refused to go quietly. David had eventually convinced him to drink a shot of brandy. He told Elliot later he’d dropped a Benadryl in it to help his father sleep.
At breakfast, the storm appeared to have passed. Spence was just as usual; he never mentioned Nora’s name. His confusion was obvious. Kate was kind to him but kept up a bright flow of conversation with Andre about his shelter work. He and Elliot were firmly on Team Kate, she knew, and after David’s frozen hostility it was a relief to compare New York notes, talk restaurants and jazz clubs and real estate and clients. In front of Spencer, neither of them mentioned the dreadful news Meredith Folger had brought yesterday. But cyanide was all the rest of the family could talk about, in groups of two or three, once the older man was safely shut in his room. They were each convinced that Spence had committed a fatal error.
“Grandpa’s so much worse,” Laney said now.
She was holding a pair of earrings to the light of the sunny front window, turning them like a spirit-catcher. She had retreated into herself since David’s proposition the night before—relieved, Kate thought, that Spencer’s outburst had diverted her father’s attention. David always made her suffer, Kate thought bitterly. He liked knowing that he could tear his daughter’s heart in two. By treating Kate like a hated enemy ever since she’d arrived, he’d handed Laney a choice. Which parent had her loyalty? Which was she willing to lose? He’d never appeal to Laney’s love or support. David didn’t care how much you gave. He cared what you gave up.
“You were here at Christmas,” Kate said. “Was his memory as spotty then?”
Laney shook her head. “The good periods were longer. The bad ones seemed like mistakes. Now it’s the reverse.”
Kate slid the elegant throw one last time against her cheek, then slipped it regretfully back into a stack of similarly gorgeous weavings displayed on a ladder-back chair. Her budget was far too tight to allow splurges. “It’s obvious he can’t live alone any longer.”
“Of course not! He just killed someone! He could be sent to jail, Mom!”
“Not jail, sweetheart.”
“He should be,” Laney whispered. “So should I.”
Kate realized suddenly that it wasn’t just David’s anger that had throttled her daughter the previous night at dinner; it was the sick comprehension that an aunt she’d never met had died from apricot seeds Laney brought to the house. David might argue that Nora could have committed suicide. He was a lawyer. He had spent his life negotiating ambiguities. But Laney was absorbed in horror. Her grandfather was losing his mind. And between them, they had killed a woman.
“You have absolutely no reason to blame yourself,” Kate said firmly. “You tried to help Nana Barb with the best intentions possible.”
“He doesn’t even remember,” Laney persisted, “that Nora’s dead. Much less why she died. It’s so creepy, Mom. Sometimes I look at him, and he’s Grandpa. But sometimes there’s nothing in his eyes. He looks at me like I’m a stranger.”
“I think he knows our faces. But he’s not always able to put names to them.”
“Can we just . . . get out of here? Can we just leave right now?” Laney’s face was hauntingly white. “I’m really freaked out. I didn’t sleep well last night. I can’t even eat anymore. I mean, what if he . . . poisons us?”
“It’s not going to happen, Lane.” Kate pulled her daughter close. “You know it’s not.”
“What if those seeds killed Nana, too? What if it wasn’t really the cancer? What if she died because I—”
“Laney.” Kate shook her slightly. “No. You’re not responsible for that. You’re not responsible for Nora, either.”
“I never even knew her,” Laney said. “But she’d be alive, Mom, if I hadn’t left those seeds for Grandpa to find.”
Merry drove to Step Above straight from the Steamboat Wharf parking lot. David Murphy answered the door.
“Yes?” he asked, as though she were a stranger. “Can I help you?”
“I’d like to speak to Mr. Murphy.”
“Concerning what, exactly?”
“His daughter,” Merry said.
David’s flat gray eyes surveyed her coldly. “You’ve already spoken to him once. There’s nothing more he can tell you about Nora’s death. He probably doesn’t even remember it. He’s not in command of his faculties.”
What an old-fashioned word, Merry thought—faculties. As though there was an entire university busily chatting away inside Spencer Murphy’s head. “I came early in the day, sir, in the hope that your father would be more alert after a good night’s rest. I’d like to know more about Nora’s emotional state in the days before her death. It might help us to determine whether it was accident or suicide,” she added delicately.
She suspected David was hoping for suicide. It would absolve the household of responsibility.
“Very well.” He stepped back to admit her to the hall. “But as my father’s lawyer, I’d like to be present.”
Merry lifted her brows. “I’m not charging him with anything.”
“Even so. I insist. He’s not a well man, and I don’t want him upset.”
Merry followed him out to the back lawn.
Spencer Murphy was seated in his plastic Adirondack chair with a pair of field glasses lifted to his face.
“Goldfinch,” he said. “Cute little thing.”
“Dad, Detective Folger would like to talk to you again.”
The field glasses slowly lowered. “Ralph’s here?”
“No, Dad. Detective Folger.”
David had clearly never heard of Merry’s grandfather.
She touched Spence’s shoulder lightly with one hand. “I’m Ralph’s granddaughter. We met yesterday morning, sir. Do you have a few minutes?”
“Sure. Like a drink?”
“No, thank you.” Merry drew up the second plastic chair and sat down. David stood behind them, his arms crossed and a frown on his face. The day was growing hotter. A cloud of midges hovered above the unmown grass.
“You told me yesterday that your daughter, Nora, was thinking of writing a book,” Merry said. “Did she tell you what it would be about?”
“Me,” Spence said. “She was writing about me.”
“Your career? Your life?”
“All the old stories from Laos.”
“But I thought you already did a book about those, sir. A long time ago. In the Cage of the Pathet Lao.”
“Exactly,” Spence said. “My escape. Did you know I was major news on every television set when it happened? I found that out, after I got back.”
David moved restlessly. “You wanted to ask about my sister’s mood, Detective, before she died.”
Merry ignored him. “Nora was going to write about Laos. Did she tell you why?”
Spence shook his head. “I don’t remember. I guess she was just interested.”
“A lot of people were interested in your survival, weren’t they?”
“Of course. It’s a great story.”
“And you’re quite a storyteller. You’re a member of the Wharf Rats, after all. I bet you hold them spellbound every time you tell a tale. Some of your stories are even true.” Merry glanced up at David. He looked irritated. “Is the Laos story true, sir?”
Spence snorted. “You’d have known if it weren’t. Somebody’d have scooped me by now.”
“Unless everyone who could scoop you is dead.”
“Detective!” David broke in. “That’s enough. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
“Nora knew the truth,” Merry persisted. “Didn’t she?”
David came around his father’s chair and stood over her. “If we were in court, I’d say that you’re leading the witness. Now kindly get out of here.”
“You’re obstructing a police officer in the line of duty,” Merry told him.
“He’s not competent to tell you anything!”
“Then maybe I should tell the story myself. I found pieces of it on your sister’s laptop.” Merry glanced back at Spence. He was staring at the cloud of midges. “You adopted Nora during a post-war trip to Laos. Her mother, who was the widow of your former interpreter, Thaiv Haam, had just died in a Vientiane slum. Nora was in an orphanage.”
“Terrible place,” Spence whispered.
“You seem to have loved her. The two of you are described as close. But Nora had unanswered questions about her past. A few years ago, she went looking for her birth parents in Laos. What she found confused her. The names of the birth parents she eventually tracked down—Thaiv and Paj Haam—were both Hmong. Which didn’t make sense. Because Nora was half-white.”
David drew a sharp breath. “Dad, you don’t have to listen to this. Would you like to go inside?”
Spence lifted his hand and waved David aside.
“Thaiv worked for you,” Merry went on. “Paj cooked in Long Tieng. When that secret place was overrun by the Communists, the three of you were left behind. You promised Thaiv you’d get him and Paj to Vientiane. You’d fly them to safety in the US. You walked as far as a safehouse in the city—but there you were trapped. The American embassy was abandoned. The three of you needed food and water. Thaiv was the one who risked his life to get it. He was ambushed by the Pathet Lao, tortured, and killed.”
“He was a good man,” Spence said. “Paj—”
“Was beautiful?”
“Yes.”
“What does this have to do with anything, Detective?” David asked. “It’s ancient history. If you think Nora killed herself because she found out something about her father—”
“Thaiv wasn’t her father,” Merry said. “Spence was. It was assumed you were with Thaiv, Mr. Murphy, when he was ambushed that night in June. It was assumed you were a hostage, or dead. But in fact when Thaiv didn’t make it back to the safehouse, you and Paj swam across the Mekong River under cover of darkness and crossed into northeast Thailand. You disappeared off the map.”
“Yes,” Spence said. “We found help in a tiny village outside of Udon Thani. Paj cooked. I taught English. We got by.”
“How long did you stay with her? Six months? According to your memoirs, you were back in the States by Christmas.”
Spence shrugged. His eyelids flickered. He was beginning to tire.
Merry looked directly at David. “The whole time he was missing, your mother pressured the State Department and any news organizations that Spence had worked for. She lobbied for high-level exchanges between neutral diplomats in an effort to get information. They tried to negotiate Spence’s freedom. There was just one problem: the Pathet Lao insisted they didn’t have him.”
“I remember,” David said slowly.
He was beginning to understand.
“Even hiding out in his remote Thai village, your dad must have heard some news reports about his supposed capture. He must have realized that people were looking for him. The more time passed, the harder it would be to explain what he’d done. He couldn’t walk out of the Thai jungle and tell the truth: that he’d taken a long vacation. Deliberately dropped out of his Western life. He either had to spend the rest of his days in hiding with Paj—or he could walk out of the shadows in the most spectacular fashion possible. He could ‘escape’ from a Communist insurgency he claimed had tortured him in a cage. I imagine he spent a week at least wandering around alone in the jungle, getting dehydrated, scarred, and dirty—then walked into the nearest major town.”
“Udon Thani,” Spence murmured.
“That’s ridiculous,” David cried. “My father was a hero, Detective! Nora was endless trouble. Whatever she left on her laptop is fiction—meant purely to disturb Elliot and me. She wanted to destroy our relationship with Dad—make us question everything we cherish—and claim him for herself. She’d been trying to do that all our lives.”
“Odd then, that she died without even telling you she was here,” Merry said.