Binder waited for me to take a breath, his mouth slightly upturned, a look of amusement in his eyes. That amusement annoyed me before he even spoke. “You’re right. They are all connected, but none of them is our perpetrator.”
By that point, I’d had it. “How many times do I have to be right before you give me a little credit? I’ve been more right about this case than you guys from day one.”
Binder stared at Flynn, who looked away in disgust. Then Binder stepped aside so I could enter. “I think you better come inside.”
“Don’t touch anything,” Flynn ordered.
We walked through a well-appointed living room and past a gleaming modern kitchen. “What did this guy do for a living?” I asked.
“Nothing,” Flynn answered. “That’s one of the reasons no one reported him missing. We figure he inherited a ton of money. Won’t be certain until we can follow the paperwork trail on Monday.”
That made sense. Deborah had said Howell Lowe’s father was so rich he didn’t need to work. We went down a long hall toward what I could only guess was a home office or den. The three of them stepped aside so I could be first into the room.
“Oh, my God.” An entire wall of the room was covered with photos and documents. I stepped closer. At the center of the wall was a copy of the photo I’d found at the yacht club. “This is it! This is the photo I’ve been telling you about. See, everyone who was at the restaurant was there!” In my excitement, I jabbed a finger at the photocopy.
“Don’t touch,” Flynn hissed.
Next to the photo was the picture of the burned-out home that had been on the front page of the Shoreline Times. Radiating out from it were photos of each member of the Rabble Point set as they looked today. I recognized that Barry’s was clipped from his store website and Phil’s from his company’s annual report. Deborah’s was from the story in our local paper about the house and garden tour last summer. Sheila’s was her official portrait as a judge, and so on. On the far right of the wall was a map with each couple’s former home marked on it, as well as their addresses in Busman’s Harbor and the year they moved. Below the map was my missing gift certificate and a copy of the insurance report like the one I’d collected from Tom Dudley. Linking all of the photos, documents, and maps were handwritten arrows drawn directly on the wall along with a a scrawl of handwriting every bit as illegible as Austin Lowe’s signature in the Snuggles Inn guest book.
“This proves it!” I said. “One of the people in the restaurant that night is the killer. The person who left the lit cigarette in the Lowes’ couch is afraid of being exposed. They’re covering up their guilt. Why don’t you see that?”
Binder snorted in exasperation, losing patience with me. “We found something else. Not here, but at Enid Sparks’s home.” Binder gave me a letter, handwritten on lined paper, already in an evidence bag.
Through the plastic, I read:
To Whom It May Concern
I let myself into my nephew’s home after receiving a cryptic and alarming phone message from him about his intentions.
Austin was gravely injured in a fire that killed his parents. As a young boy, he spent many painful months in the hospital, followed by years of therapies and surgeries designed to prevent scar tissue from hampering his flexibility as he grew.
Perhaps all that has happened is my fault. I never told Austin that one of the guests at his parents’ New Year’s Eve party had probably started the fire. I never saw what good it would do to assign blame. But a year ago, somebody in town, innocently I’m sure, repeated the story that has always gone around. One of us that night left a lit cigarette smoldering in the couch cushions.
I’ve never known if the story was true, and even if it were true, how would we ever know who did it? It was supposed to be one of the happiest nights of my life. Barry Walker and I announced our engagement. There were many toasts and congratulations. After Dan’s death and Phil and Sheila’s divorce, we were all joyous to have something to celebrate.
But after the fire, we could never look at each other again. The loss of Madeleine and Howell was the final death knell for our childhood friendship. I devoted myself completely to Austin’s care. I had to grow up quickly. I went to nursing school in part so I’d have the money to raise him until his trust fund became available when he was twenty-one, and in part because I thought it would help me care for such a profoundly injured child. Barry saw I had no time for him, no thought for him, no love left over to give him. Eventually he moved away, and I settled in to raise Austin.