“I’m glad to hear it. I’ll make a point of dropping in on him more often, then.”
“Wonderful. So…I’ll see y’all,” Cary said, and with a cheery wave, she was gone.
“What the hell was that all about—really?” Caroline asked.
“She wanted to apologize?” Sarah suggested. “Either that, or she’s just trying to be friendly.”
“Then she should stop sleeping with married men,” Caroline said with a sniff, before changing the subject. “Hey, my folks will be back in an hour or two, and then you’ll be able to leave. Take tomorrow off to make up for today, why don’t you? Barry will be coming back in, and Renee said she’d rather be working than sitting around being afraid.”
“Well, good for her, I guess. But it’s still terrifying to think of her being attacked that way.”
“I talked to her, and she said she felt kind of dizzy when she left the bar and knew she probably shouldn’t have been walking alone, and then suddenly she didn’t realize quite where she was. That was when she saw lights. She can remember the lights. Then…nothing. She was conked on the head and woke up in the hospital sometime around two a.m. Apparently someone saw her lying there and got her to the hospital, then took off.”
“Was her purse stolen? What do you think her attacker wanted?”
“No, and I don’t know,” Caroline said.
“Why just hit someone on the head if you’re not going to steal something from them—or worse?” Sarah asked. “It doesn’t make any sense.”
“I know, but look, I have to get back out there. Hang in with me just another hour or so, please?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll hang in as long as you need me.”
“Thanks,” Caroline said. “We need to stick together these days.” She shivered, then hurried out of the room.
Caleb felt as if he’d been sitting in Jamison’s office—wasting time—for an eternity. Jamison was aggravated with him, he knew, complaining that Caleb hadn’t kept him fully informed about his follow-up investigation into the woman who’d been on the beach the night of the party.
Now, however, Caleb had been over everything he’d discovered, and Tim Jamison was still hostile. “You had a clue—and you went out without telling me?” Jamison demanded.
“Look, it was a worthless trip. The Martha Tyler in Cassadaga is elderly and petite, and she wasn’t running around on the beach the night the Hart girl disappeared.”
“She’s a medium,” Jamison said. “She didn’t tell you where to find the killer?” he asked sarcastically.
“No, she didn’t,” Caleb said and leaned forward. “Look, it’s very possible you have a living witness—Renee Otten. Why aren’t we with her now, pressuring her to tell you what she knows?”
“I’ve already questioned her,” Jamison said.
Caleb hesitated. He wanted to remind Jamison that the police had also questioned the kids from the beach and hadn’t come up with Martha Tyler’s name, but that wouldn’t help their working relationship—quite the opposite, so he refrained.
“I’d like to speak with her myself.”
Jamison shook his head. “She got hit on the head while she was walking home drunk. The girl’s an idiot. Who takes off alone knowing that a killer is loose in the city? Whoever attacked her, it wasn’t our killer or she’d be missing and probably dead right now.”
“Unless someone came up and interrupted the killer before he could carry her off.”
“What do you think we are—backwoods yokels?” Jamison asked. “We’ve released her picture, and the media are asking for help, anonymous tips included, from anyone who might have seen something.”
“Even so, do you mind if I question her myself?”
“If she’ll see you, you have my blessing. But I want to know everything—and I do mean everything—you find out. Which reminds me, why were you so insistent on Floby taking the newest body from the Grant house?” Jamison sounded seriously aggravated. He’d been looking worn-out before; today he really looked like hell. His suit was wrinkled, and his shoes were muddy. He leaned back in his chair, popping an antacid. “Well?” he persisted.
“I think that corpse is an ancestor of mine,” Caleb said.
Jamison frowned. “Excuse me?”
“Sarah McKinley did some research, and she found a direct link from Cato MacTavish to me. If I’m right and that corpse is Cato’s fiancée Eleanora, there’s a possibility she’s my whatever-number-of-greats grandmother.”
Jamison shook his head. “Look, Eleanora Stewart died or disappeared halfway through the war, and the odds are that your ancestor did her in. Meanwhile, I have two women still missing, another one dead on the beach, and you’re trying to catch a killer from the 1800s. Are you here on a case, or are you just looking for your roots?”