“I think you should visit Mystic Magic. Spend a few hours hanging around, just watching.”
“All right. I’d also thought about interviewing the employees of the restaurant where you found the head,” Sloan told him.
“Great idea. But we need to know more about Mystic Magic.”
“Keep me posted. I’ll be in the office filtering through reports,” Purbeck said. “So far, we’ve been called out to inspect three pumpkins, a hanging skeleton—and, yes, a cloth rendition of the headless horseman wearing a Jason mask”
“We’ll keep in touch.” Voorhaven and Van Camp left.
Jane asked Aidan, “What’s your plan?”
“I’m going to find Lizzie grave.”
6
Mo wasn’t surprised when she heard a car on the gravel drive outside her house around noon.
She knew it was a friend, since Rollo gave a happy woof and wagged his lethal tail.
She salvaged a cup of pens and markers just before he could send it flying to the floor.
She’d managed to work for a while—with half her mind. Doodling, and letting her subconscious take over, often resulted in some of her best pieces.
Going to the door, she glanced out the small window; as she’d expected, it was Mahoney returning.
The day had become bright and beautiful, a fall afternoon when the sun was shining as a golden orb and the colors of the leaves were stunningly beautiful.
She opened the door and waited for him.
“May I come in?” he asked when he reached her.
“In here? You don’t want to go to another graveyard? This is the Hudson Valley. We have plenty of churchyards and cemeteries and even family plots.”
His look told her that he didn’t appreciate her sarcasm.
“Sorry,” she said. “Please, come in.”
He moved past her. She watched the broad contours of his shoulders and the straight line of his back. Just her luck. She’d always thought that real attraction was much more than the physical. That it was easy to admire someone who was beautiful or handsome or striking—but you didn’t necessarily really want that person.
Well, Mahoney made a lie out of that. He was simply compelling, from his stature to his long fingers and the bronzed breadth of his hands. His blue eyes were direct, searing at times.
As Grace would say, I’d do him in a heartbeat!
Mo quelled her thoughts and followed him through her house. He usually looked at her as if she were a root vegetable. It wasn’t too smart to get a crush—even purely physical—on a man like that.
He paused, surveying what he could see of the house, then he hunkered down to greet Rollo.
“Great place,” he told her
“Thank you. I love it. And I love that I’m so close to Sunnyside.”
“You’re a Washington Irving fan,” he said.
“I am. I love his stories and I love the stories about him, too. He was a fascinating man, good to others, smart, filled with humor,” Mo said. “But then, you know all that. You’re from here.”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t come to my house to talk about Washington Irving.”
“No.”
He straightened and continued to stand there.
“Has anything new happened?” she asked at last.
“A couple of my coworkers are here. One’s a fantastic artist.”
“Great.” He still hadn’t explained what he wanted. “Can I get you a drink? Soda, water—cup of coffee?”
“Yes, thank you. I’d love a cup of coffee.”
“How do you take it?”
“Black.”
She walked into the kitchen and poured him coffee, then handed it to him. He leaned against the counter. “It’s good. Nice and strong. I don’t know what it is, but I haven’t found a police station yet that brews anything but mud.”
“Well, I’m happy to offer you coffee anytime you like,” she said. She quickly turned to pour herself another cup and asked, “So, why are you here?”
“Lizzie’s grave,” he said. “I’m assuming it’s a grave, but I’m trying to figure out who Lizzie might have been, and why her grave was significant to Richard.”
“Want to come and have a seat?” she asked.
They went back to her office, where she took the chair behind the desk, allowing him the one across from her.
He sat, picking up her “witch’s cauldron” Halloween card from the edge of the desk.
He smiled. “You made this?”
“The art, the words and the paper engineering,” Mo said as he worked the pop-up angle of the card. “Well?” she couldn’t help asking.
He put it back down. “I’d buy it,” he told her.
“Thanks. So, Lizzie’s grave?”
“I found the words Lizzie grave scribbled on a matchbook Richard had in his pocket. They were also impressed on a notepad in his hotel room. Not the page he actually wrote on—he must have taken that with him, although it wasn’t found on him or among his things.”
“Did he have a relative who died here?” she asked.
“I thought about that, but—”
“You knew his family.”