Death in the Family Read online

  At the door, she stopped. “You’ll find him,” Camilla said. It wasn’t a question.

  Remembering Norton’s request, I said, “I’ll do everything I can. That’s a promise.”

  She turned her gaze back to the bed and her eyes went glassy. “Grandparents aren’t supposed to have favorites.”

  He’s special. That’s another thing people say when somebody goes missing. I’ve heard relatives declare it about lost loved ones many times. The one who was taken is always the best. It’s a philosophy that highlights the injustice of what’s happened, and heightens the drama of it all; humans are hardwired for storytelling, and every good story needs drama. I doubted Jasper was the snowflake his grandmother thought him to be—but I had to admit in the looks department, he was remarkable. The man in the photograph Camilla had showed me, a candid shot taken in sparkling sunshine, might have been Jude Law in the nineties. Jasper’s hair and eyes were threaded with gold and his straight teeth generated a leading-man smile. His nose had a slight bend, a lacrosse or football injury from his teen years no doubt. It only added to his mystique.

  “Special doesn’t begin to describe him,” Camilla said. “Do you know Jasper’s the only one who visits me? Three times a week in the city, just to keep me company. We play cards. He’s a young man with an important job and a busy life, but he always makes time for me, and never asks for anything in return. Most grandchildren don’t do that. Believe me. I know.” When she shifted her meager weight, the floorboards didn’t so much as whisper. “He deserves better. I’ve always thought so.”

  I wondered what she meant by that last bit—better than gold watches and private islands?—but by then Camilla had moved into the hall. I watched her descend the staircase, each step a painstaking struggle. Only when I heard Tim’s voice greet her on the main floor did I go back into Jasper’s room.

  Tim was getting nothing done down there beyond chatting up our witnesses and keeping them calm. I knew this, sure as I knew I had little time to assess the scene before I’d have to barricade the door and get downstairs myself. There was no way to conduct the interviews with other witnesses listening in, twisting the story to serve their own needs. We’d have to separate them, but with every minute that passed, the killer—if there was one, if that person was even still here—had more time to think the situation through and prepare their next move. More opportunity to gain the upper hand.

  Early in my law enforcement training, one of my instructors said it’s nearly impossible to convincingly fake an alibi without first re-creating it step-by-step. Plan to tell the cops you were out getting wine at the time of your lover’s death? You better drive to that liquor store and browse the aisles for the elusive Australian Shiraz that supposedly brought you there. You couldn’t have killed your boss because you were at the gym all evening? Unless you follow through with that fictional workout, a cop’s not going to buy it. Only by living the lie can guilty people deliver believable accounts. It’s scary to know it can be done at all, but there’s something scarier still. Despite everything I’d been told, I’ve seen killers pull alibis out of a hat neat as a magician, no false bottom in sight. And I had no desire to give these people the chance to show us what they, too, could do.

  Snapping on the fresh pair of latex gloves I’d hurriedly stuffed in my pocket—my cuffs and tactical flashlight I’d clipped to my belt—before leaving A-Bay, I pulled out my notebook again. Over the years I’d gotten in the habit of making my own analysis. It’s a game I play to keep my skills sharp. I like to compare my conclusions to those of the forensics team. My training included some crime-scene investigation and management, but just as you wouldn’t expect a liberal arts grad to be an authority on psychology based on a couple of courses, I’m no pro. Look, don’t touch: that’s my motto. Otherwise there’ll be hell to pay with the guy or girl who gets to the scene next.

  Blissfully alone, I walked the room a second time imagining Jasper and his girlfriend settling in the previous night. I peeked in the dresser and under the bed. The two of them had shared a suitcase. They’d unpacked and stuck the empty luggage in the closet. Did they live together back in Manhattan? I’d need to find out.

  Aside from the sheets, which would have to be bagged and tagged, there were several other objects worth collecting. Two iPhones were charging on a nightstand. Wherever Jasper was, he’d left that lifeline behind. We’d need someone to have a look at e-mails and messaging apps. I spotted a little blood on Jasper’s pillowcase that made me scratch my head. Blood on the sheets and a smear on the pillow, but everything else was clean. The long, dark hair beside it presumably belonged to Abella, but it would have to be analyzed all the same. I pictured her resting soundly while someone sank a blade into her boyfriend’s belly, just inches from her own, and frowned.

  If she wasn’t directly responsible for whatever happened to Jasper, I thought, she had help getting to dreamland last night. It was the only way I could see her sleeping through the attack; hell, with the number of pills it takes me to drift off some nights you could tap-dance on Carson’s body and I wouldn’t flinch. And if Abella was in the habit of popping pills, maybe Jasper did the same. You don’t need a history of drug use to go overboard or make one lethal, ill-fated match.

  On the other nightstand, I found something else peculiar: a water ring, the kind you get from forgetting to use a coaster. It was faint—I had to get in close to spot it—but it was there. Already I’d seen enough of the house to know Norton kept it immaculate. Why not buff away the stain? True, the mark could be fresh, but there was no glass in sight, nothing to collect for testing. Abella Beaudry would be an important interview. She had some explaining to do.

  When I was done with the area around the bed, I took note of the location of the windows. Three of them, close together, bowed outward from the house. The screens were all intact, the windows shut tight against the storm, and as a result the room retained its smells. I picked up the sour tang of sweat, but it was almost completely overpowered by the sharp, metallic stench of blood. Aside from the windows, the room also had a glass door that opened onto a Juliet balcony. There were no stairs leading down to the ground, but I wondered if someone could have climbed up another way. The floors were pristine—no messy footprints, no debris from outside. These observations I marked in my notebook, filing them away for later.

  With one more sweeping appraisal of the room, I was done. The doors in the house were old with antique hardware. I found the key to Jasper’s room in the keyhole and locked it behind me. In the gloved palm of my hand, before dropping it in my pocket for safekeeping, the key seemed to emit a low-frequency vibration that zipped through my body like a shock. At home I never lock interior doors, not even when using the bathroom. Not anymore.

  It took twenty minutes to search the second and third floors of the house. On the outside the place appeared huge to the point of obscenity, but its warren of hallways made the interior feel unnervingly cramped. I couldn’t get my bearings. There were doors everywhere, closets that turned corners to go on forever. Some were lined with fancy dresses and suits zipped into storage bags. The Sinclairs must have held parties out here years ago, Gatsby-style. The staircase to the third floor, which was entirely occupied by a master bedroom that clearly belonged to the house’s owner, spiraled upward to a dizzying height. In good weather, Camilla would be able to see all the way to Canada.

  Throughout my search there was a knot in my stomach and a tightness in my chest. I knew I might find Jasper’s body at any moment. Here it comes, I warned myself. He’s hanging from a rafter, bloodless and bloated, in this high-ceilinged bedroom. This is it, I thought. He’s here behind this door, ready to crumple heavily against me when I give the knob a pull. Those twenty minutes seemed to last hours, but other than the blood on his bed I found no sign of him. I checked every room but one, which was locked from the inside. When I knocked on its rich, five-paneled door, I got no reply.

 
Nine people were staying in the house, and most of them were relatives. I wasn’t optimistic that fingerprints would reveal much. Close families have few boundaries. Formalities tend to fall away. If this family was anything like mine, their prints would be everywhere, and that would make the interviews I was about to conduct even more crucial.

  The thought made me shudder. I knew even then, so early in the case, that the key to this solve wasn’t in my pocket or behind Jasper’s locked bedroom door. It was downstairs in the living room.

  Waiting.

  FOUR

  I wasn’t ready to face them, not yet. There was a part of me that still hoped I’d find Jasper alive and break some local records for the fastest solve in history, so I skirted the living room and went straight for the basement, the door to which I found in the kitchen.

  Picture a cellar from a horror film, dusty and dank with crumbling stone walls and a criminal air. Old pipes clang and a strange odor hangs heavy, nauseating in its rottenness, meat-sweet. That’s how I imagined the basement in the house on Tern Island. In truth it was pretty ordinary, but walking down those stairs gave me a head rush akin to eating too little and standing too quick. It took me hundreds of miles from the island, to a place I never wanted to be again.

  I wasted no time getting out of there to do a cursory search of the grounds outside, rain be damned. There was no way I could cover the whole island on my own, but I poked through leaf piles and peered over steep cliffs with gusto. If there were indeed caves chiseled into the rock, they didn’t reveal themselves to me. Back inside I checked the sunroom, library, and Norton’s room. It was the sole bedroom on the main floor, accessible through a butler’s pantry. Predictably, it lacked the old-world glamour of the rest of the house. A single bed, a small chest of drawers, and a nightstand constituted Philip Norton’s belongings. There was a framed photo beside his bed that showed him as a much younger man, with a full head of red hair and his arm around a boy about ten years old. I picked up the frame and scrutinized the kid’s face. The boy might have been Jasper, but I couldn’t be sure.

  Only the room where Tim had situated the Sinclairs and their guests remained. I stepped through the doorway and finally got my first look at our witnesses.

  They made me think of Bram. Presented with the family and their pristine house at the summit of Tern Island, he would have seen perfection. To Bram, perfection was synonymous with danger. In the context of a murder case it alarmed me, too. Nothing about this place was flawed, and that uncanny fact had preoccupied me throughout my search. Every room I’d entered was magazine-ready, and the living room was no different. On the mantel sat a mindfully arranged autumn vignette of hefty pewter candlesticks, gourds, and pheasant feathers. Fresh-cut mums burst from vases on mirrored tabletops. Heavy valances in neutral tones were shaped like the bustle of a nineteenth-century skirt. Classy. That’s how I’d describe the place. And the family fit right in.

  Like Camilla’s, their clothes were casual but perfectly tailored—dress shirts overlaid with cashmere sweaters, pants with centerline creases sharp as the blade of a knife. A woman with short dark hair and fat diamond earrings reclined artfully on a settee as if gracing the cover of Vanity Fair. A handsome man with coffee-colored skin leaned against the window beyond which trees strained against the storm. It was open a crack to let in a wet breeze, and sheer curtain panels billowed around him like smoke. The youngest of them all, a teenage girl with rosebud lips and shiny chestnut hair, looked like she could have been a celebrity’s little sister about to make it big herself. An equally striking man who was surely her father sat by her side. Against the high-polish backdrop of the house’s antique furniture and the fire that crackled happily in the hearth they were exclusivity personified. There was one exception, one person who didn’t belong in this picture of privilege and wealth, and I’d have bet anything her name was Abella Beaudry.

  Abella’s eyes were ringed in red. Here was the source of the sobs I’d heard earlier. The woman looked dazed, as if she’d taken—or was given—something for the shock. Out of everyone, she alone wasn’t dressed. Her hair was a mess, her pink pajamas wrinkled. Even from across the room I could see the fabric on her hip was stained with blood. Jasper’s girlfriend had our missing man’s DNA all over her, and she hadn’t done a thing about it.

  Camilla had taken my advice and gotten herself some tea. She was still ashen, but compared to Abella she looked absolutely hearty. Overall, the rest of the family came off surprisingly well. There was a serving tray on the table that held a plate of sliced cake, a coffee urn, and a pitcher of cream. Several of the mugs were in use. Were it not for their voices, kept respectfully low, and the poor, pathetic girl in their midst, it might have been just another rainy autumn day at the river for these American aristocrats.

  As I studied the room, a niggling itch formed at the back of my throat. I took a head count. Nine on the island, Tim had said, including Jasper. Norton stood at attention by the living room door. That left seven. There were five people seated, plus the man by the window. Someone was missing.

  “Wellington,” I said. “A word?”

  Tim followed me into the foyer as the others looked on, and brought his head close to mine. “How’s it look up there?” he asked. The movement was minuscule, nothing our witnesses would notice from a distance, but I felt him rock on his feet. Whether he was keen to hear what I’d found out or nervous, I didn’t know.

  “Messy,” I said. “There’s enough blood to fill a kiddie pool. If Jasper’s still alive, he won’t be for long.”

  “Really?” Tim looked shocked. He dropped his gaze to the burnished floorboards. “Wow,” he said eventually. “Gotta say, I wasn’t expecting that. You thinking drugs?”

  How did Abella sleep through the stabbing? How did Jasper’s attacker get him out of a second-floor bedroom without a fight? “Could be,” I said. “Nothing visible in the drawers or luggage, but we’ll see what forensics says.”

  “So the guy took a knife to the gut and disappeared.”

  “Looks that way. There’s no easy escape route to the ground. The house is all clear and in order, except there’s a room upstairs that’s locked.”

  “That would be Jasper’s older brother, Flynn Sinclair. I tried to round him up while you were with Camilla, but he’s refusing to leave his room. I nearly had the same problem with the kid.” He cut a glance at the gorgeous teen on the couch. “She belongs to Miles Byrd—middle-aged guy with the hipster glasses,” he said. “Her dad seemed impressed I was able to coax her down here at all. I’m sure she’s dying to get back to her busy schedule of Snapchatting and brooding.”

  “You told them not to use their phones, right?”

  Tim nodded. “First thing.”

  “Good. We don’t need folks getting the media all keyed up before we have a handle on the case.” McIntyre liked to talk about the era before cell phones, when it took hours for news of a crime to circulate in town and days to reach the rest of the county. Now witnesses could take a murder public in seconds. McIntyre’s good old days were my Shangri-la.

  Tim chewed his lip. “No ETA on the Watertown team, and these people are getting antsy, Shane. I’m not sure how long I can keep them in the parlor.”

  “The parlor?” I repeated, amused. “How posh.” Nodding at the ceiling, I said, “Guess that settles it. The first interview goes to Flynn.” Frankly, I was a little disappointed. My chat with Jasper’s girlfriend would have to wait. At the same time, I was eager to get to know Jasper’s family, these people who’d allowed one of their own to disappear. Behind us, a man cleared his throat. “Tell them to get comfortable,” I said, taking a step toward the room. “It’s going to be a long day.”

  “There’s something else,” Tim said. “Philip Norton.”

  His tone stopped my forward momentum short. “What about him?”

  “I’m not sure. There’s something familiar. I thought so th
e minute I saw him, but I can’t put my finger on it.” He shrugged. “Could be he has one of those faces.”

  “Well, if anything hits you, let me know. You get the name of that trapper?” It was a long shot, but if he’d been on the island in the hours before Jasper disappeared, we’d need to give the man a call.

  “Talked to him a few minutes ago, guy by the name of Billy Bloom,” Tim said. “He was on the premises for about four hours yesterday and left after the last of the family arrived, like Norton said. I described Jasper. Bloom saw him briefly on the dock. No contact other than that. According to Bloom,” Tim said, “he found the remnants of some yellow perch, extra stinky. He went straight home to shower, then to the Riverboat for some beers.”

  “Any witnesses?” I asked, though I knew the answer. The Riverboat Pub was always jammed on Friday nights.

  “Matt says Bloom was in there from seven p.m. to midnight—Matt Cutts, the bartender,” Tim said. “Bloom got so hammered Matt took his keys and called his wife. I talked to her, too. Says he was snoring next to her all night and still sleeping it off this morning.”

  Tim had been busy. There were benefits to his community ties, and I reminded myself to give him a pat on the back about his swift recon work later on. It would have to wait, because behind me I heard another flagrant attempt to get our attention.

  “Showtime,” I said. “Ready?”

  Tim nodded, and together we turned to face the room.

  I liked to think we looked intimidating in our dark rain gear and heavy boots. Tim’s shoulders were muscled and his hair was slick and black from the rain. I had height and my badass facial scar to offset my freckles and frizzy hair. I wanted to send a message: this is a serious situation, and you’re getting a serious response. Only Abella stared back at us with a mixture of wonder and fear. The others looked annoyed and a little bored.