“It’s just the timing of his death that intrigues me,” Caleb said. “And the fact that we found him while we were looking for Winona. I’m not saying there was a connection, I’m just curious. For the moment.”
“Interesting. All right, you’ve got Frederick Russell and the unidentified woman from the beach. Then there are two missing girls, and a houseful of bones. And we need to discover what—if anything—some or all of them, have in common. We know the unidentified woman had an opiate mixed with a hallucinogenic in her system. Russell was clean. Jennie Lawson? She’s a total mystery, other than that she and Winona look like twins. Then we have rumors about murders and disappearances from the Civil War era, bodies in the walls, and now a body in a trunk. Are we actually trying to connect everything?”
“We? You just said you were an M.E., not a cop,” Caleb reminded him.
“An intrigued M.E.,” Floby admitted. “Does Jamison know you’re trying to put all these pieces together?” he asked.
“Not yet, but he will. I just haven’t had a chance to talk to him about it yet.”
Cary Hagan opened the door to their knock, looking gorgeous even in workout clothing, the kind of fancy sweats you saw on models in pricey catalogues. The kind of clothes most people would never actually wear to work out in. But Cary was wearing them—to spend her time with a man who was a hundred years old.
“Hi, how are you guys?” Cary asked, as if it were the most natural thing in the world that the two of them had come by first thing in the morning. “Mr. Griffin will be thrilled to have company.”
Will was staring at Cary the way a dog stared at a juicy bone. Sarah didn’t doubt that her cousin really cared about Caroline, and she was sure it would be hard for any male not to be entirely charmed by Cary Hagan, but she had the sudden fear that he might actually start drooling. He looked positively hypnotized.
Sarah nudged him in the ribs. “Um, sorry. We’re fine. How are you—and Mr. Griffin?”
Cary just laughed. “We’re both fine, too. Come on in. He’s in the parlor, reading.”
Mr. Griffin’s house was built along the same lines as Sarah’s, and Cary led them into the parlor on the left.
Mr. Griffin, resting in an armchair, an afghan over his knees, looked up when they entered. He barely glanced at Will before fixing his gaze on Sarah.
“You’ve come to see me. Thank you. Have you learned any more about what I told you?” he asked her anxiously.
Cary, who probably heard him talk about the past all the time and was glad they were there to listen, said, “I don’t know about you all, but I need some coffee, and I’m getting Mr. Griffin’s favorite tea all set up. I’ll be right back.” With a smile, she was out the door.
As soon as she was gone, Mr. Griffin looked at Will suspiciously and spoke to Sarah as if Will couldn’t hear. “Who is he?” he asked her.
“This is my cousin, Will Perkins. He’s one of my best friends.”
Mr. Griffin smiled, seemingly satisfied.
“Mr. Griffin,” Sarah said, “we’ve discovered that a number of women disappeared here in town during the Civil War, and at least some of them seem to have been linked to my house. You said your daughter disappeared in 1928, and that she was on her way to my house when it happened. I was hoping you could tell me a little more about what was going on then, if maybe other girls went missing then, too, if maybe what’s happening now is repeating a pattern that’s played out at least twice before.”
He looked at her thoughtfully. “When I heard about the skeletons in the wall, I was hoping you would find Clara,” he said softly. “Then I was hoping you wouldn’t.” He looked away for a minute. “They said that the housekeeper kept a book, the witch Martha Tyler.”
“I was asking about your daughter, Mr. Griffin,” she said gently. “Not the Civil War.”
“I know exactly what you asked me, young lady, and I’m trying to answer!” he snapped.