Nothing can bring peace but yourself . . . [and] the triumph of principles.
—Ralph Waldo Emerson, “Self-Reliance”
NORMA SWIPED AT a tear that touched her cheek at the memory.
“When I heard about poor Julian . . . Well, that was the first time I ran. I didn’t have a clue what really happened to that sweet young man after I left the mansion that night, but I had my suspicions.”
“If you suspected someone of the crime, why did you run?” Brainert asked.
“Oh, I suppose I could have proclaimed my innocence and stayed to face the music. But I remembered Julian telling me how his family ‘bought’ justice for their son Hal, and I knew I didn’t have a chance of proving my innocence—not if my suspicions were correct. And if I was right, the Ballard family needed a scapegoat to pin the murder on. I knew that scapegoat would be me.”
“So, you’ve been living in your van, driving from place to place ever since?” Brainert asked incredulously.
“Oh no, you misunderstand,” Norma countered. “I’ve been living the van life since I turned eighteen. I left home on four wheels, and I’ve been on the road ever since. That was my choice. But I never wanted to be a fugitive or change my name to ‘Norma Stanton.’ For the past nine years, I’ve been running one step ahead of the law.”
“What do you think happened to Julian that night?” I asked.
Norma patted the manuscript in her lap.
“It took me years to piece it all together, and I had a lot of help along the way. My nine-year search for the truth is chronicled right here, along with my theory about what really happened.”
Seymour spoke up, amazement in his voice. “But it was an active murder investigation, and you could not get near the witnesses, the crime scene, the files, or even the investigating officers. How did you manage to learn anything at all?”
“Over the years I surreptitiously contacted members of the domestic staff,” Norma explained. “From their various accounts about the events that night and the days and weeks that followed, I reconstructed what I believe occurred.”
“Dorothy Willard in Millstone was one of those people you contacted, wasn’t she?” I asked.
Norma nodded. “Dottie worked for the Ballard family until she was laid off. The family sold off the Palm Beach property after Ballard Pharmaceuticals got caught up in the opioid scandal. Last year the company was dissolved.”
“Did you know Dorothy Willard was murdered the day before yesterday?”
Norma hung her head and nodded. “I should never have involved her. She didn’t know much, as it turned out, but she knew I was innocent and wanted to help. Now she’s paid the price. She wasn’t the first, either. Two years ago I received a sworn affidavit from a fellow named Stanley Crisp, who worked as a custodian at the mansion. Stanley testified that he witnessed Hal Ballard burning clothes in the mansion’s incinerator the morning after the murder.”
“Incinerators are always incriminating,” Seymour noted.
“I was hoping he would help me clear my name, but it was not to be,” Norma said. “Stanley Crisp drowned last year in a boating accident—if it was an accident. There were no witnesses.”
“Did you know about Louis Kritzer?” I asked.
“I picked up the Quindicott Bulletin in a feed store where I bought the birdseed this morning,” Norma replied. “That’s how I found out about Dottie, and Louis.”
“We found the note from Louis Kritzer, confessing to recording your talks at the group therapy sessions and putting them online,” Seymour said. “Kritzer claimed he wanted justice.”
“He was good friends with Stanley Crisp. Louis also believed Stanley met with foul play.”
“Do you think Mr. Kritzer really committed suicide?” I asked.
“I don’t know.” Norma frowned. “Louis did suffer from bouts of deep depression, and he was on his tenth month of sobriety, which is always a difficult struggle. That was why he attended the reverend’s group sessions.”
“Well, there is no question that Dottie Willard was murdered,” I replied. “I was there. I know. But I also know you did everything you could.”
Norma shook her head. “I did nothing.”
“Not true,” I proclaimed. “You tried to protect Dottie’s identity when you stole the Post-it note from Fiona’s check-in desk.”
“Excuse me?” Norma said, blinking.
“You remember. Fiona had a Post-it note stuck on the side of her registration computer with Dorothy Willard’s address written on it, so she could contact you when you were away, presumably visiting Dottie, who you claimed was your sister.”
“I didn’t know about that note,” Norma said, stunned.
“Someone took it the day the jewels were stolen. Fiona thought it was you.”
“I . . .” Norma blinked again and shook her head. “I didn’t take that note, but I know who did. That’s why I ran from the Finch Inn the other day, why I have to keep on running.”
I leaned forward so far my folding chair nearly collapsed. “I still don’t understand. Tell us why you ran, and why you have to run now.”
“I ran because Hal Ballard checked into the Finch Inn—and tried to frame me as a jewel thief.”
“Hal Ballard was at the Finch Inn?” I cried. “Fiona never mentioned anyone named Ballard.”
“Because of the scandals around Ballard Pharmaceuticals, Hal is going by his mother’s maiden name now. He calls himself Hollis West—”
“The man who checked in with Peyton Pemberton!”
Norma nodded. “If anyone stole that Post-it with Dottie’s address, it was Hal. He was the only one who had a reason to steal it. If Hal had something to do with custodian Stanley Crisp’s death, I’m sure he suspected Dottie was helping me, too—”
“Which meant he had a motive for killing that poor old lady,” Seymour said.
Norma nodded again. “And he wants me out of the picture—if not arrested, then dead.”
“Arrested . . .” I thought a moment. “I doubt Hal’s arrival at the Finch Inn was a coincidence. He and his girlfriend are Internet influencers, they would likely be aware of who else was hot or trending online. Your inspirational videos have gone viral on several platforms—and a recent video told the public where to find you.”
“Well, I know in my gut that Hal Ballard, aka Hollis West, murdered his half brother,” Norma said. “And his family has been covering up the crime by deflecting the blame to me. Getting me arrested for a jewel theft would have revealed my identity to the authorities in an incriminating way—and shut the book on the murder of Julian.”
Norma must be right, I decided. If the killer is Hollis West, then everything makes sense . . .
I considered how easily it would have been to frame Norma for stealing the Tears of Valentino, if Peyton Pemberton had been in on it. And she had to be. The pair checked into the Finch Inn on Sunday together—with the jewels—then Hollis departed. He could have taken the necklace and one earing with him, leaving a single teardrop behind, which Peyton could have planted on the maid’s cart while grabbing a towel for her morning run. I thought back to those security camera images showing Peyton exiting her room without a towel—yet bounding down the stairs with one around her neck.
That was it! The great Finch Inn jewel heist was solved!
That also meant the suave Mr. Santoro was likely just what he claimed to be—a man on a mission to recover the Tears of Valentino—and not a murderer as I’d feared (despite those muddy boots in his back seat, just like plenty of fishing-loving locals and tourists possessed around here).
“So, Norma, what are you going to do now?” Seymour asked.
“I’m going to dig out my trailer, hook it up to my van, and get the heck out of here,” she replied.
I held up my hand. “Not so fast.” I faced her. “There might be a way to end this now. I think we can clear your name, get justice for Julian Ballard, and solve Dottie Willard’s murder at the same time. But only if we have a little help from some friends . . .”