I crumpled that as well, shoved it into my pocket with the other napkin, then continued to drink my beer. I suddenly felt ridiculous—not so much for the terrible limericks—but for the fact that I had been obsessively following a woman tangentially involved in a case without my department’s knowledge. James was right. If I thought Lily Kintner was hiding something, I should simply pull her in and question her. The chances were that her only involvement in this case was that Ted Severson had fallen in love with her shortly before getting himself murdered. She had lied to me because of a stressful situation with her father, a public figure who was involved in his own murder case. She had nothing to do with Brad Daggett, who had killed both Ted and Miranda on his own, and disappeared off the face of the earth. The latest theory was that after killing Ted, Brad had most likely blackmailed Miranda, somehow insisting that the handoff of the money take place at the unfinished house. It would explain why they had met there late at night, and it might explain why Brad was able to vanish so completely—a substantial amount of cash would make it that much easier. I finished my beer and paid for it. I would leave the inn, go back to my car, and return to Boston. Tomorrow I would talk with my superintendent, ask him if he thought pulling Lily Kintner in for questioning was a good idea. If he agreed that it was worth a shot, I’d have James accompany me. If he thought I was barking up the wrong tree, then maybe I’d wait a week, give Lily a call, see if she wanted to get a drink sometime.
I stepped back through the low door of the inn. The day had darkened considerably in the half hour or so that I’d been inside. I reminded myself that daylight savings time was over, and dusk would come earlier. As I was walking back toward my car, I took a long look at the hillside cemetery. It was empty. In the fading light I could make out the tree and the gravestone; it wouldn’t hurt to take a look. I crossed the large intersection, found the small entranceway to the cemetery. A newish stone in dark polished granite told me that this was called the Old Hill Burying Ground. I walked up the steep path toward the tree, its leafless branches blackly etched against the stone-colored sky. I found the marker that Lily had studied so intently, crouched as she had done, and read its inscription. Mrs. Elizabeth Minot, dead in 1790. I suddenly wondered what I had possibly hoped to find from coming up here. I ran a finger along the worn inscription. It was a beautiful gravestone, with a soul effigy carved at the top, along with a warning: BE MINDFUL OF DEATH. I shivered a little, and stood up, both of my knees making popping sounds. My head swam a little in the colorless light of dusk. A steady wind began to swirl the fallen leaves on top of the hill. It was time to return home.
I heard the snap of a branch coming from the other side of the hill. I turned; Lily Kintner was a few steps away, her hands in the large pockets of her coat, coming purposefully toward me. Her presence felt unreal, as though she were an apparition, and I smiled, not knowing what else to do. Should I admit to following her? Should I pretend this was a total coincidence?
She kept coming, till she was just inches away. I thought for a moment she was going to kiss me, but instead she said, in a low whisper, “I’m sorry.”
I felt a stinging pressure against my ribs, and when I looked down I saw her gloved hand pushing the knife up and into me, up and toward my heart.
CHAPTER 34
LILY
From my spot under the horse chestnut tree on the outskirts of the cemetery, I spotted the solitary figure along the ridge. The light was fading fast, but I could see that it was Detective Kimball. I watched him crouch, and take a look at the gravestone, the same one that I’d looked at earlier. Mrs. Minot.
I took a moment—shaking my arms to get the blood moving—to congratulate myself on how easily I’d lured Kimball to an isolated spot, just as dusk was coming on. As I began to walk toward him, I looked around, on the off chance that there were other visitors to this cemetery. But we were alone.
When I was less than five yards from Kimball, I stepped on a fallen branch, and he turned.
In one pocket was my stun gun, and in the other was my filleting knife. I had planned on stunning Detective Kimball first, then stabbing him, but he seemed so surprised, so dazed, to see me that I simply stepped in close and slid the knife between his ribs, angling it so that the knife would reach his heart.
It was all so easy.
His face went white, and I felt his warm blood as it spilled onto my hand.