“I was summoned.” Fiona crossed her arms. “He’s pissed about the BCI investigation. He blames it on me. But I think he’s going to figure out pretty quickly who’s behind it.”
He looked at her for a long moment, and she watched the wariness drain from his expression like water. “I didn’t instigate it—given what’s happened, they opened the investigation themselves. But I’m cooperating, Fee. I’m giving them everything I know.”
“About your own father?” she asked gently.
“He covered for Tim. He tried to kill you. He shot at me.” Jamie shook his head. “But I told you before all of that. I was already done. And I meant it.” He gave her the ghost of a smile. “I guess it’s safe to say I’m not going to be a cop anymore.”
“So what will you do?”
“I don’t know. I’ll have to think of something. Maybe I’ll take up woodworking, or buy an apple orchard.” He took his hands out of his pockets, and she saw the bandage on his hand. “I hear journalism is a particularly lucrative career, except I can’t write for shit.”
That made her laugh, the sound brief before it died again. He didn’t have to be a cop to do good, to help people. Maybe in time he’d realize that. “Jesus, Jamie,” she said, rubbing a hand over her forehead. “What a mess. How is your mother handling it?”
“Not good,” he said, looking grim. He glanced at her. “She blames you, at least for now.”
Of course she did. She was a cop’s wife, a cop’s mother. His mother hates me and his father tried to kill me, Fiona thought. This is never going to work.
As if reading her mind, Jamie said, “So what now, Fee?”
She looked around at the cold, empty street, beneath gray skies that threatened more snow. At the police station behind her. At the man in front of her.
What now?
And then she took a gamble.
“Do you want to go for coffee?” she asked him.
He thought it over, and then he answered.
But he didn’t have to. She already knew what the answer would be.
Epilogue
Barrons, Vermont
December 2014
As the machines moved in and the crew worked, the small knot of men circulating, Fiona aimed her camera at the damp square of dirt and took another shot.
“There’s nothing to see yet, you know,” Katie Winthrop said at her shoulder.
Fiona didn’t answer her. For the first time in their brief acquaintance, Fiona was seeing the indomitable Katie Winthrop nervous. The old woman was bundled deep into her coats and scarves, her hands ensconced in thick mittens, her elegant feet lost in a pair of winter boots. She was talkative and fidgety, edgy and emotional. Today, Fiona could clearly see the troublemaking fifteen-year-old who had once driven her teachers crazy.
Anthony was hovering in the background, fretting over his mother, ready to offer her tea from a thermos. Fiona paid no attention to him as she watched two of the dig crew consulting, then calling a third man over for his opinion.
“God, I hate this place,” Katie said.
“So do I,” Fiona said, her gaze still on the crew. “Everyone hates this place.”
It was a dark December day, the sun long hidden behind the cold clouds, and the dim light made Idlewild look even worse. Behind them, shadows loomed under the row of deep eaves that lined the main hall, making them look even more like cavernous teeth. Having the building behind her gave Fiona the chills, as if it would move while she wasn’t looking. The plastic that had been stretched around the old garden flapped mercilessly in the winter wind. Everything seemed to be waiting.
Not long now, Fiona thought, watching the men.
“Oh, thank God,” Katie said. “The girls are here.”
Fiona glanced around briefly to see Roberta and CeCe approaching, bundled just as deeply as Katie was, their arms linked. Jamie accompanied them, making sure neither woman stumbled on the frozen mud of the drive. Roberta looked grim, but CeCe gave a polite wave.
“Good God,” Roberta said when they got close. “This place is even worse than I remember. Is it going to take long?”
“What is that smell?” CeCe asked. “Oh—it’s the garden. Now I remember.” Her expression went hard as the memories hit. “Disgusting.”
It was. Even in the frigid cold, as soon as the crew had overturned the first layer of frost-crusted earth, a damp, hideous smell had come from this square of land, as if it exhaled bad breath in their faces. The crew had said something about drainage and clay and pH, but Fiona hadn’t bought it. The smell was Mary and her baby. It always had been.
Jamie moved to stand next to Fiona’s shoulder. “Are you okay?” he asked her softly.
“This is nice of you,” Fiona murmured back. “You didn’t have to come.”
She turned, and their eyes met for a long moment. He gave her half a smile as her throat went dry. “I wanted to,” he said.
Fiona tore her gaze away and stared ahead again.
“I’m taking you for a beer after this,” he said. “I don’t care if it’s early.”
“Okay,” she said, feeling her cheeks warm. It felt like a first date.
“Katie,” Roberta complained as Fiona focused her camera on the garden again. “Your son is trying to give me tea.”
“Take it,” Katie said. “It makes him happy.”
“I’d rather have hot chocolate,” CeCe said. “It would cheer me up. I like hot chocolate better. I don’t really want to see a dead body. Oh, no. I’m talking too much, aren’t I? I do that when I’m nervous.”
She went quiet, and Fiona knew that either Katie or Roberta—or both—had taken her hand.
Without CeCe’s chatter, there was only the flap of plastic and the wind again. The work crew, hired by Katie, had been here for five hours already, and the light would fail soon. But the square they were examining wasn’t very big, and the soil was loose and wet despite the weather. They’d already gone deep, the small backhoe parked by men working by hand with shovels. Finally, the crew foreman made his way around the hole in the ground to Katie, a serious look on his face.
“We’ve hit something,” he said. “Wood.”
A coffin. Mary’s parents had left her outside to die, but they’d buried her and her baby in a coffin.
It took another forty minutes, but the coffin was uncovered and lifted from deep under the old garden. It was rotted, rough, makeshift, clearly homemade. The stench that accompanied it, even in the brisk winter wind, was so bad that the men of the work crew raised their scarves over their noses and mouths.
Fiona smelled it, too, but she kept her hands on the camera, taking shots as the coffin emerged from the ground. She had written most of her piece on Sonia Gallipeau, the sad story of her life and death. Jonas was going to use it as part of his relaunch of Lively Vermont—at long last, he was changing the magazine’s focus from soft-pedaled tourism stories to the kinds of in-depth local coverage he wanted to run. He’d sold his half of their house out to his ex-wife, taken the money, and invested it in the magazine while he lived in the room over his elderly mother’s garage. Strangely, he was in a better mood than ever since he’d done it. I feel like I’m twenty again, he’d said.
Part of his jubilation came from the fact that the cover story of the new Lively Vermont wasn’t going to be about Sonia Gallipeau at all. It was going to be an exclusive article by the legendary Malcolm Sheridan, excerpted from his forthcoming book about the 2008 financial crash. Jonas had worked out a deal for the first new writing from Malcolm Sheridan in twenty years, and even living in his mother’s garage couldn’t dampen his joy.