Fear curled in Westie’s stomach as she wondered if word had already gotten back to him about the robbery and the missing bottle of Brave Maker.
Nigel led her down the catwalk to the library. It had been her favorite place to play when she was young. She used to run through that room as a child, squealing war cries with her sword in hand while Nigel hobbled after her yelling, “Good God, Westie, no running with blades!”
The memory warmed her for a moment before she remembered why they were there.
They sat down on a bench beneath a shelf of books. It took Nigel a while to speak. He kept starting and stopping. Finally he dedicated himself to words that sounded rehearsed.
“Westie, I’m very sorry for the things I said to you this morning.” She didn’t care about that. She was more concerned about what had happened during the search, but she let him continue. “I mean, I’m upset that you went behind my back and stole the Fairfields’ gold without confiding in me first, but I’m not upset that you took it. You at least tried to do something. You were right. I should’ve done more, and now Isabelle is dead. I won’t make the same mistake twice. The Fairfields will get what’s coming to them. Whatever it takes, whatever schemes there are to come up with, we’ll find a way.”
She sat up straight, his words taking some of the edge off her frazzled nerves. “You really mean that?”
“Yes, I really mean that. But we will do it quietly. Don’t make any decisions that might draw attention to yourself.”
Oh, right, she thought, like breaking into the general store and stealing booze, or a girl dying while in her care.
“There’s something else I need to say,” he continued, looking down at his boots. “You stood at the table clutching the doll you shared with your late brother, and all I could think about were the creatures and Emma, and how you taking that money had ruined everything. I didn’t stop to consider that you have had to face the killers of your family every day since they arrived in town—you even danced with them at the ball. If it were me, I most certainly would have killed them by now. You’ve been strong and I’ve been terribly insensitive. Can you ever forgive me?”
Westie’s throat tightened. She picked at a loose thread on her skirt. “It’s nothing. Let’s just forget about it.”
“Very well,” he said, looking relieved.
After an uncomfortable silence, Westie asked, “When’s the funeral?”
“After the investigation.”
Westie dropped her hands, and her eyes and mouth opened in astonished O shapes. “What investigation?”
“The mayor seems to think the drowning looks suspicious. The girl was far from where she typically played. It’s possible she was lured to the river, though personally I think she was playing on the old bridge and fell in. More children have fallen into that river than I care to count. But the mayor is a stubborn man. Can you believe he looked me right in the eye and said, ‘Folks in this town seem to have it out for the Fairfields,’ as if I killed the child? It’s madness around here. Someone even broke into the general store while people were in church!”
Westie’s guts felt full of acid. If the mayor was investigating Olive’s death, that meant he’d be out there looking for clues, and it wasn’t like she’d taken the time to clean up after herself. There was no telling what messes she could’ve left behind that would lead the mayor right to her doorstep.
“What’s missing from the store?” she said in a tremulous voice.
“I don’t know. The shopkeeper is going through his inventory. I’m sure I’ll hear more in the morning.”
Westie’s thoughts spun in circles. She’d left the bottle of Brave Maker somewhere at the scene but couldn’t remember where.
She reached over, gave Nigel’s hand a squeeze, and stood. “I promise I won’t do anything stupid till you figure out how to go over the mayor’s head.”
He smiled. “Good. Where are you off to?”
“I’ve got a few things I need to take care of.”
Westie spent most of the night combing the forest for the bottle of whiskey and any other evidence she might have left behind. Retracing her steps, she hoped her new dog would be of some use. As the hours passed, it turned out Lucky—the name she’d given him—was not the retriever she’d hoped for. If the bottle was out there, someone would’ve found it by then, and in the morning after the shopkeeper finished cataloging his inventory and found only a bottle of Brave Maker missing, she’d wake to someone pounding on the door and the angry voices of a lynch mob.
She shook out her hands, trying to calm herself. If she left town, it would only make her look guilty. She had to stay and face whatever was coming to her. They couldn’t convict her on a bottle of stolen whiskey just because it was her favorite brand.