“White Deer told me about your talk last night. She’s studying up on some possible ways to cleanse the lot.”
“That’s good,” I said, squinting at my mug. The caffeine was barely touching the edges of my fog, eating away at the weariness that ran through my body. One hell of a way to be facing my birthday, all right—worn out and freaked because I’d found out I was living next door to spook-central. “So, have you found out anymore about the skeleton or Brigit?”
“Yeah,” she said. “I found out that Brigit never left the States, and nobody knows where she went. She could have disappeared anywhere, but I’m leaning toward the thought that she stayed right here in Chiqetaw. Especially with what Nerissa discovered.”
I perked up. “What? Did she find some way to identify the skeleton?”
Murray let out a low sigh. “I think we can be certain that we’ve found Brigit. I managed to track down Mary Kathryn O’Reilly, a cousin of hers who still lives in the village of Glengarriff.”
“The Mary Kathryn in the journal?”
“One and the same. It seems that Brigit never returned to Ireland. They lost touch with her back in 1955. Brigit had faithfully written a letter to her cousin every two weeks since she moved to the States. Then, one day, they just stopped coming. In her last letter, she’d mentioned she was thinking about returning home, that she had one last thing to do and—if it didn’t turn out as she hoped—she’d be booking passage on a boat. She added that she had a surprise to tell Mary—though not altogether a happy one. And then—silence. No more letters, no post-cards. Nothing.”
I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Joe’s aunt knew her, Mur. Brigit told Margaret that she was thinking of leaving town, and Margaret just assumed she’d left when she disappeared.” I gave her a quick rundown on what Margaret had told me. “So, if she never left, never went home … then …”
“She died right here in Chiqetaw. There’s more. In talking with Mary Kathryn, I asked if Brigit had any identifying characteristics that might show up on the skeleton or in her possessions. Mary remembered two—one physical and one a keepsake. It seems that Brigit was born with six toes on her left foot. The skeleton has six toes on the left foot. And Brigit owned her mother’s wedding ring. According to her cousin, Brigit never took it off. She wore it on her right ring finger. The description matches the ring that was on the skeleton’s finger.”
I stared at the table, my muscles twitching. That cinched it. We’d found the mysterious Brigit. Poor girl, unmourned and forgotten for all these years. Except, perhaps, for the murderer. Had Brent been responsible for her death? Was there any way to find out?
“And you say her death was no accident?”
“She had a skull fracture on the front right temple. Though we can’t be sure what caused the break, it seems to fit with a heavy blow from a blunt object.” Murray sighed. “I hate this shit. It’s hard enough to solve a murder that’s recent, let alone one that took place fifty years ago. Whoever stuffed that girl’s body in the tree didn’t want her to be found. They just hid her out of sight like a bag of old rags. Bastards.”
“So, what’s our next step?”
“We interview Irena. Want to come? You can talk to her about Brent and the lot while we’re there.”
“Will that be okay?” I asked, knowing that Murray had already pushed the envelope by letting me tag along to see Brent.
“Yeah, don’t sweat it. I can always think of something to tell Bonner if he bitches, but with this case being so old, he’s not really paying much attention. Cold cases like this seldom ever find resolution. Luckily, the crime rate in town the past few weeks has been pretty sparse, so I’ve got some leeway.”
We agreed that she’d swing by to pick me up around noon. I glanced at the clock. 9:00 A.M. Time enough to run a few errands before she got here. I pushed back my chair, grabbed my keys, and headed out the door.
A QUICK STOP at the shop reminded me just how much I missed being back at work. Monday was looking better and better, and I could hardly wait for things to get back to normal. I made sure Cinnamon and Lana had everything under control and then headed out to the animal shelter. Never ignore the practical, even when hoping the magical would work. The charm could bring Sammy home in a number of ways—the neighbors might spot her, or animal control might find her, or maybe she’d saunter home on her own.
Once again, my heart fell as I made my way back to the cats’ room, where at least fifteen felines of varying ages waited behind bars, their expressions mixtures of desperation and hope, of fear and weariness. How I wanted to take them all home. But even if I had the space, by tomorrow, the cages would be full again. I hurriedly glanced through, but Samantha wasn’t anywhere in sight. I forced myself out of the building as fast as I could, unable to handle the loneliness that emanated from the very building itself.
A quick stop at the grocery store took my mind off the shelter. Until I stocked up on cat food, that is. After depositing our brood’s favorites in the cart, I stared at the shelves for a moment, then hoisted two twenty-pound bags of dry food on top of everything else. Before I headed home, I dropped in at the shelter and donated the food. Maybe I could only feed a few mouths, but at least I would know that the cats were getting a good meal.
Once I got home, I slipped out of my jeans and into a calf-length brown rayon skirt and a burgundy turtleneck sweater, then zipped up my tan suede boots. If things went right, maybe I could persuade Irena to sell Joe the lot now that she couldn’t use Brent as an excuse anymore.
I finished putting away the last of the groceries when the doorbell rang. Mur was dressed, once again, in a fancier-than-usual suit, but she looked no-nonsense. She strode in, gave me an approving glance.
“Ready?” She glanced at her watch.
I nodded and gathered my purse and keys. As I slipped into her truck, I looked at her. “Do you think Irena had something to do with Brigit’s death?”
Mur grimaced. “I have no idea. Whatever happened, it was a long time ago. Irena seems awfully cagey, but maybe she’s just worried about word getting out that Brent’s been stuck in an institution all these years. She’s a schmoozer, runs in high society right up there with and above Harlow. Some of those folks take a dim view of oddball relatives. I think that was especially true back in the fifties when she first got married. On the other hand, maybe Brent did it and she knows and has been trying to protect him all these years.”
Both thoughts made sense to me. And if she knew he’d killed Brigit, it might account for her trying to keep things undercover. Maybe she was protecting him but felt guilty about it. If people heard about him, they might ask why he was there and bring up unpleasant questions. We passed through the west side of Chiqetaw, where the lawyers and doctors congregated their practices, into one of the garden suburbs. Chiqetaw might be small, but it had its neighborhood districts. Or cliques, should I say.
Irena’s house was buttressed up against the Chiqetaw Links Country Club & Golf Course. Harlow had been offered a membership, but she turned it down with a quick and icy “no.” The club was known for its subtle racism and Harl refused to take part in any such discrimination. She’d made her displeasure known around town, but only a few of the members tried to strike back. Her philanthropy and substantial wealth buffeted her from criticism.
We slipped out of the truck and headed up the walk. Apparently Irena had her housekeeper waiting for us because she opened the door before we had the chance to ring the bell. Murray introduced us, and the maid led us into a long foyer, then off to the right into a formal living room. As she withdrew, closing the double doors behind her, I glanced around nervously. The furniture looked like it cost more than my entire house.
“Jeez, just don’t spill anything,” I said.
Mur grinned at me with a wry smile. “I don’t drink on the job, luckily.” She rubbed her foot on the white carpet. “Who in the hell buys white carpeting? It has to be a status symbol, especially in areas like this where we get so much rain. Rain equals mud, you know.”
I was about to agree when the door opened and a woman who looked to be in her mid-sixties stepped through. Irena. She and Brent bore a resemblance to one another, but it was obvious that Irena had been under the knife a few times; since they were twins, therefore, she had to be seventy-one, the same as Brent. She had that taut, overstretched look that some stars get when they’ve had a little too much plastic surgery.
“Detective Murray, it’s nice to meet you.” She held out her hand, smiling, although her expression said she was anything but happy to see us. Murray introduced me. Irena peered at me for a moment, then said, “Oh yes, the fireman’s girlfriend. You own the tea shop. You have a quaint and charming store, my dear.”
I forced myself to bite my tongue. I’d dealt with her type before. Dazzlingly polite and aloof, she’d already negated any worth I might have, categorizing me as “Joe’s girlfriend” which meant I wasn’t worth bothering with.
Murray indicated the black leather sofa. “Shall we sit down? I have some questions I need to ask you.”
Irena took a seat in the wingback, while Murray and I gingerly sat on the overstuffed leather couch. I felt dwarfed—the thing had been made for giants.
“I can’t imagine how I can help you, but ask away.” She fidgeted in her seat and I noticed her hands were in constant motion, twisting her handkerchief. My guess was that Irena wasn’t the best poker player in town.
Murray sighed. “Why don’t we start with your brother? All these years, you’ve told people he’s been living overseas and yet, all this time he’s been at the Fairhaven Psychiatric Hospital. Would you tell me why you’ve kept up this charade, and why Brent was committed?”
Irena winced. “Committed is such a harsh word, Detective. Brent was a danger to himself. Even as a child, he wasn’t very stable, he was always so emotional and passionate about life. He was an artist, you know, but our father was only proud of him when Brent made the football team. Father thought it might snap Brent out of what he considered his ‘sissy ways’, but all it did was point out how different he was from the other boys. He spent a year at Yale, failed miserably, and had to come home.”
Mur regarded her quietly. “How old was he, and what happened when he returned?” She was jotting notes as quickly as Irena gave them to her.
“Brent was nineteen when he came back. He stayed home for a year, trying to regroup. Father insisted he give it another shot—he’d pulled some strings, gotten Brent back into school on conditional acceptance. Before he was supposed to leave, something just snapped. He collapsed into his own little world. The doctor recommended shock treatment. That was routine back then, and so our parents signed the papers and committed him to Fairhaven.”
Up until then, she’d been telling the truth. I could hear it in her voice, see it in her aura. But she’d glossed over something with the last—left something unsaid. Not a lie, really, but an omission.
Murray’s gaze flickered toward Irena and I knew she’d picked up on the shift, too. She nodded, though her expression remained passive. “I see. Can you tell me why your parents, and later on
you
, lied about his whereabouts?”
Irena shrugged, a bitter expression crossing her face. “Detective, you weren’t even alive at that time. You have no idea of how easily any hint of mental illness could ostracize a family. My parents were high on the social ladder, not only here, but in Seattle and on the east coast. They were only thinking of me. It was better to have people think that Brent ran off to Europe, if I were to have any hope for a normal life. They told me never to talk about his problem, so I did as they asked. And the lie became habit, and then—in its own way—the truth. Brent really is in a foreign country, but one that exists within the confines of his own mind. Why, even my husband doesn’t know that Brent is living at Fairhaven. After all these years, I’ve never told him.”
“Do you ever go see him?” I asked.
Irena gazed at me quietly. “Once a month. I tell my husband I’m going to have lunch in Bellingham, and I go sit with Brent for the afternoon. He never seems to care, but I do it anyway.”
I liked her a little better, and forced a smile to my lips, which she gently returned.
Murray let her breath out in a slow stream. “All right. What can you tell me about Brigit O’Reilly? She was your maid, was she not?”
Irena nodded. “Yes, lovely girl, around my own age. She was quite competent, and we were sorry to lose her but she wanted to go back home to Ireland. I think she missed her family.”
There—again the omission. I nudged Murray ever so slightly.
Murray’s eyes flickered and I knew that once again, she’d caught the shift in energy. “When did she leave?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I was in and out of the house that summer getting ready for my wedding. I really don’t remember,” Irena said. She paused for a moment, as if thinking, then shrugged. “I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
Murray sat her notebook and pen down on the coffee table. “Mrs. Finch, what would you say if I told you that Brigit never left Chiqetaw? That the skeleton we discovered on your lot is hers? We’ve confirmed it, for all intents and purposes.”
Irena gasped, delicately fluttering a hand to her throat. “Oh my! You can’t be serious?” She gave Murray a wide-eyed correct-me-if-you-dare look. Murray returned it with her own icy stare.
“I don’t joke about death. Brigit’s remains were found stuffed in a hole beneath the yew tree on the back of your lot. We found her diary, her suitcases, and her clothing hidden away in a basement room. We think she may have been murdered, and we want some straight answers. I might remind you that there’s no statute of limitations regarding murder.”
I was suddenly glad that I wasn’t on the receiving end of Murray’s interrogation. Irena sniffed; I could feel her waver. Then she let out a loud sigh.