Jessica Yeo, however, appeared to have quite enjoyed pawing around the Smith family finances. Somehow she learned that Everett Sutherland had been Boone’s elderly godfather, a family friend from North Carolina. He had died of cancer only a few months after Boone’s and Sadie Rawson’s murders. Sutherland’s funeral had been held at Second United Methodist Church in Charlotte, and he’d been buried beside his wife of forty-seven years.
This explained a lot. Namely, why Everett Sutherland had never tried to track me down. Why safe-deposit boxes and bank accounts had simply been forgotten. Judging by the balance in the Smiths’ account, he had steered the proceeds from the sale of the house on Eulalia Road into the right place. But then Sutherland must have gotten sick and been too worried wrapping up his own affairs to put in place proper arrangements for my birth parents’ estate. I could only assume he’d meant to contact the Cashions at some point, but had run out of time.
Jessica Yeo didn’t apologize for disobeying my request to back off. On the contrary, she pitched a few ideas for what she wanted to look into next. Pretty, pretty please? she wrote. This is soooo much more interesting than the fact-checking junk that Leland keeps assigning me. Do NOT tell him I said that.
My next e-mail was also from a journalist. Alexandra James reiterated her invitation to coffee, and then, almost as a casual aside, inquired about the bullet. Did you keep it? I made a couple of calls, and Atlanta police won’t comment. But they must be interested, right?
Reporters. Honestly.
What an exhausting profession, to be professionally trained to be relentless. In the last five days, Alex James had doorstepped me at my house, delivered a handwritten note, and reached out via e-mail. Next she would be in the street out front, shouting questions through a megaphone.
I nearly sent the last message in my in-box straight to spam. It was from an address I didn’t recognize, [email protected]. A guest-satisfaction survey from the bed-and-breakfast? An electronic copy of my receipt?
But it was a personal note. The front-desk minder, the teenager who had looked barely old enough to drive, hoped that I’d had a pleasant stay on the island. Housekeeping had found a phone charger and my iPod in the room. Did I want them shipped? He gave the phone number for the front desk.
“So that’s where they went,” I said when he answered.
“Oh, hey! Yeah, I wouldn’t have written if it were just the charger. But I figured the iPod you might want.”
“Thanks. That’d be great.”
“How was dinner at Brotherhood of Thieves? Did you try the Pumple Drumkin?”
“No. But thanks again for the recommendation. Nice place.”
“No problem. That guy ever reach you?”
I frowned. “What guy?”
“Guy called a couple times looking for you, while you were at dinner. Didn’t leave a name.”
I frowned more deeply. Other than Marie and Verlin Snow, I had told no one I was going to Nantucket. No one else had known I was there, and certainly not where I had stayed. I hadn’t wanted my family to worry about my traveling so soon after surgery.
“Older guy,” said the front-desk clerk. “Maybe a Southern accent? I wrote down the number from caller ID, after he called the second time, in case it was important. Hang on. Let me see if I can find it.”
I chewed the stem of my glasses and listened to him shuffle papers around. When he came back on the line, he read out a number I did not recognize. It began with a 404 area code. Atlanta. I hung up and scrolled through my contacts. Not Beamer Beasley. Not Cheral Rooney. Not Jessica Yeo or Leland Brett. I reached for my wallet. From the fold where I keep receipts, I removed a business card, printed on heavy Crane stock, and checked the cell number.
How had Ethan Sinclare known I was on Nantucket?
? ? ?
I COULD HEAR the bad news in Beasley’s voice. Something in his tone, even as we were exchanging pleasantries. “What’s wrong?”
“We heard back from FBI forensics this morning. Just got off the phone with the lab. The bullet is inconclusive.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning they can’t match it. Meaning it’s in too poor condition. They can’t do anything with it. I’m sorry, Ms. Cashion.”
“Nothing at all? Did they agree with the techs in Georgia about the caliber, what kind of gun was used?”
“Yes. It’s a .38, all right. But too mashed up and scratched to compare with the evidence samples. Not to any degree of certainty. Not even looking at it under a good microscope.”
“I can’t believe this. What happens now?”
“Well . . .” Beasley let out a deep breath. “FBI’s going to send down their complete report. I only got the headlines over the phone. Gerry Flee-man and I’ll go over everything and compare notes. But without the bullet . . . It was the possibility of new physical evidence that prompted reopening this case, as you know. Without that, without a bullet match, I’m not sure how much farther we can go.”
“So that’s it?” I was struggling to take this in. “You’re done?”
“I’ve been over these old files a dozen times, Ms. Cashion. We would need new evidence to justify—”
“Ethan Sinclare didn’t have an alibi for that day.”
Silence. Then, sounding annoyed: “Yes, he did. I told you. He was at his office, with his client—”
“His client Verlin Snow. I know. Except he wasn’t. I went to see Mr. Snow this weekend.”
“You what?”
Beasley yelled at me for a good five minutes after I told him about my meeting with Snow. I had put myself in danger, I was interfering with an investigation, was I completely out of my mind?
“I’ll have to see if he’ll make a statement,” Beasley huffed at last.
“He won’t.”
“Have to try.”
“Sure. Okay.”
“And I’ll keep trying to get hold of Mr. Sinclare. His secretary says she expects him in later today. Says he’s got a bad habit of turning off his cell on the weekend, drives his family crazy, probably hasn’t even seen my messages.”
I knew that wasn’t true. Sinclare’s cell phone had not been switched off on Saturday night. He had somehow tracked me down and found the time to call my hotel on Nantucket. Twice. I kept this piece of information to myself. Instead, I asked, “Beamer?”