“Why would she give him the money? That’s the question,” Goldman asked. “She had already written him a check for fifteen thousand earlier this year.”
“But why switch to cash? Was she trying to avoid the gift tax or hiding the gift?”
“What are you thinking? Blackmail?”
Burns worked through the possibility. “Whitman blackmails Irene about her affair with Sam. Then Irene finds out about Amy and Owen and decides it doesn’t matter. She stops paying Leo off. Leo gets angry. Is that motive?”
“I don’t know,” Goldman said. “I’m not following the logic. If it’s just revenge, it’s a big risk to take. And he has the hand tremor, so he’d probably have to hire someone. It doesn’t make sense.”
Burns closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. “It doesn’t. But murder isn’t rational,” she said. “I still want to dig deeper with Whitman.”
Noah erased everything Margot had written in her messy scrawl and rewrote it in neat block letters. He took a step back, checking his work. Margot watched, amused by Noah’s desire to tidy up a board that they would be erasing by the end of the day.
“You’re almost an astronaut,” Burns said.
“Almost?” Noah said, trying to decide whether he was insulted by the qualifier.
“Cops can’t be astronauts. Too low on the food chain,” she said.
March 2005
When Owen was in London, time moved faster than normal. It felt like being on one of those walking belts in an airport. He didn’t look at it as regular life—more like an above-average vacation with mediocre food. But food wasn’t that important to Owen. He did enjoy the pubs and pints, and he knew what grub to steer clear of. Anything kidney. Why am I the only person who smells the urine? Once settled, he began to write long letters to Luna, reciprocating her ambitious correspondences. Receiving something in the mail was such a thrill, he finally understood why Luna continued to use that form of communication. Owen didn’t have as much patience for words, so he would often interrupt his letters with casual drawings that better illustrated the story. One was a two-paneled cartoon rendering of Owen catching a bus. In the first image, he shoves his way through the front door; in the second, after being scolded by a flatmate, he notices the queue and waits patiently in line for his turn with the other passengers.
Owen was hardly a monk that year. There were girls, all kinds of girls, too many girls to count. What he liked best about these girls was their accents. After that it was that none of them knew about Scarlet. He didn’t have to fight any preconceived ideas people might have about him, other than being American, which he apologized for whenever possible. Later, tired of apologizing, he’d say he was Canadian. He decided on Halifax, because he liked saying Halifax.
Luna’s letters were less informative about her day-to-day. She figured Owen wouldn’t want to know about anything Markham-related. She thought he ought to know more about Halifax if he was claiming it as his hometown. She wrote a three-page letter including a serviceable history of Halifax and a collection of trivia to strengthen his story. Did you know Halifax has more pubs per capita than any other city in Canada? Every August, Halifax hosts a busker festival. Lobster and scallops you can find in abundance, so don’t get too excited if you find them on a London menu. Halifax scallops will always taste better. Luna almost wished Owen had gone to Halifax instead of London. It sounded like a great place, and she wouldn’t have to buy a plane ticket.
* * *
—
After his months alone in the rambling Berkshires house with only his brother and Luna as company, it had taken Owen a few weeks to shake off the feeling that everyone hated him. He tried to remember, to repeat, to imprint in his brain, Luna’s parting words of advice: People don’t know what you think they know. On the whole, Owen thought that was good advice. However, some people did know about Luna.
It wasn’t long before Owen had a small set of friends he could drink, hang, and frequent museums with. One night he made plans to meet a friend at the Three Legs in Camden Town. The friend couldn’t make it and called the pub. Tessa, the bartender, delivered the message and kindly offered Owen a pint on the house. Not that he needed it. He was already blotto. Tessa accused Owen of being a Yank. He told her he was from Halifax. Then a girl with blue hair sat down next to him. It was the hair that got your attention, but the rest of her kept it. She was almost too striking, he thought. She was all cheekbones and long limbs and way too skinny. Some guys were into that. Owen didn’t usually go for that type. It reminded him of his mother. But the blue-haired girl had other things going for her. The bartender made introductions.
“Owen from Halifax, meet…uh—wait, remind me,” Tessa said.
“Phoebe from Sheffield,” the blue-haired girl said. “Hi, Owen.”
“Hi, Phoebe from Sheffield,” Owen said. “I like your hair.”
He wasn’t lying. The hair grounded her appearance. It drew attention and deflected it. Phoebe figured out that Owen wasn’t Canadian as soon as he said, “Hi, Phoebe.”
“Never been to Halifax,” Phoebe said with a heavy northern accent.
“Glad to hear it,” Owen said.
“Tell me about it,” Phoebe said.
“It’s a great place to visit. We’ve got more pubs per capita than anywhere else in Canada.”
“And, tell me, what do Halifaxians do for fun?”
“Haligonians,” Owen said, delighted to have that correction on hand. “We drink. Wasn’t that clear?”
“What’s the population of Halifax?”
“Few hundred thousand,” Owen said.
“Sport?”
“Hockey.”
“What’s your team?”
“I’m a Moosehead,” Owen said.
“When you’re rooting for your team, what team are you rooting against?” Phoebe asked.
Owen knew she was trying to trip him. “I give up,” Owen said, dipping into a whisper. “I’m from Boston. Please don’t tell anyone.”