But as Ora jauntily plays carols on the upright piano, Rowan finds that “I Would Die 4 U” mingles discordantly with old favorites like “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus,” which has suddenly taken on an ominous significance.
She can’t stop thinking about Jake, and the conversation she’s going to have with him the moment she sees him. It feels wrong that whatever is about to unfold with Rick will have happened before Jake even has an inkling about it.
“You better watch out, you better not cry,” she sings, well aware that Santa Claus isn’t the only one who’s coming to town.
In the midst of the cacophony, the strange mourning brooch on her coat catches her eye every time she moves her head, standing out like a scarlet letter. Is that what the sender had intended? Had she branded herself an adulteress when she unwittingly pinned it on? Has he—-whoever he is, if not Rick—-been gloating from afar? Or, God help her, from nearby?
Her instinct was to hurtle the brooch into the bushes when she took it off outside after she discovered what it was. But it’s evidence, just like the cookies and the snow globe. She has to show it to Noreen. Plus, sharp--eyed Ora Abrams would immediately notice that it was missing. With great reluctance, she pinned it back on before reentering the mansion.
At last, the sing--along is over and it’s time to move on to the kitchen for cookies and cocoa. Again, Rowan goes through the motions, chatting with the chaperones and their hostess as the students descend on the treats.
“You know, Rowan, you really should consider volunteering here next summer during the convention,” Ora tells her. “It’s the hundredth anniversary of the murders, and the town’s three--hundred--fiftieth birthday, and we’ll be opening the time capsule that was buried in 1916. We’re expecting record crowds. We need all the help we can get.”
“Mmm, maybe I will,” she says absently.
“I hope so. I’ll be training the extra guides, and with your built--in knowledge of our history—-and your last name—-you’d be a big hit. We really need more locals to be involved so that we can keep it from becoming . . .”
“Aren’t all the volunteers local?” Bari asks when she trails off.
“Pardon my phrasing—-I should have said natives,” Ora says, fixing her with a gaze that informs her that the natives distinguish themselves from the collective population.
Undaunted, Bari jerks Rowan back into the conversation. “So Ms. Mundy, as a teacher in our district, you don’t find it the least bit inappropriate to take part in an event that celebrates the deaths of innocent young girls?”
“What? No, it isn’t—-”
“It’s not a celebration, my dear,” Ora cuts in sweetly, but her gray eyes have hardened into flint as she addresses Bari. “It’s a commemoration. That’s very different.”
“Not really. We moved here last summer and I was shocked at what I saw. All those -people invading our town, talking and laughing like it was one big . . . party.”
Invading our town? Our town?
“Whenever -people come together, even to mark a solemn occasion . . . there are going to be moments of enjoyment,” Miss Abrams tells her. “Have you never been to a Memorial Day parade or barbecue?”
As Bari claims that she has not, Rowan reminds herself not to say or do anything she’ll regret later. This might feel personal, but it’s nonetheless a professional situation.
She picks up a tree--shaped cutout cookie from the platter to keep her mouth busy. Iced and painstakingly decorated, it’s probably delicious, but it tastes like the flour and salt dough she’d used to make ornaments as a kid, and the cocoa chaser might as well be water.
All she can think about is what lies ahead.
Noreen is on her way to Mundy’s Landing.
So is Rick.
If he isn’t behind any of this . . . who is?