Just as he was about to crawl back down the snowbank, Oliver was brought up short by the widening of the winter man’s eyes. Frost stared in what seemed equal parts alarm and amazement at something on that access road, and Oliver dragged himself upward several inches to have another look. At first nothing looked different to him.
Then he saw the fox.
Kitsune darted along the access road at the base of the snowbank, doing her best to remain out of sight of Virgil and Gav and the Before-and-After brothers. At the back of the Cherokee, using the vehicle to hide herself, her fur rippled and flowed and she stood up. The transformation from fox to woman was as simple as that and Oliver had to blink several times as he tried to figure out what he had just seen and how it could be such a natural change. One moment the fur belonged to an animal and the next it was a cloak draped upon a beautiful woman.
With a peek at Virgil, who zipped his fly and started over to join the others, she ducked and reached into the back of the Jeep. In a single swift motion she slung the strap of the shotgun case over her shoulder and then she was darting for the snowbank, directly beneath the spot where Oliver and Frost lay in hidden observation.
Gav had a sausage wrapped in a roll, dripping mustard onto the ground as he went to take a bite. It was inches from his mouth when he glanced up and saw her scaling the snowbank with such delicate agility that she seemed to skate up its face.
“Holy . . . Virgil, she just . . . your gun! She’s got your gun!”
He had only gotten out the first few words as he stood, pointing at the snowbank, when the others caught sight of Kitsune as well. Mr. Before spotted Oliver and their eyes met. Oliver could not help it. He grinned.
Then he was scrambling down the snowbank with Frost beside him and Kitsune leaped over the top, running so swiftly that she dashed past them. She cast a mischievous glance at Oliver, eyes alight with pleasure. The hunters were shouting threats and curses after them. He heard the sounds of them huffing up the snowbank. A beer bottle sailed through the branches of the tree to Oliver’s right and then struck another, showering broken glass down into the snow.
“Do you . . . think . . . maybe it’s . . .” he began, hardly able to catch his breath as he maneuvered through the trees, keeping abreast of Frost but unable to catch up with the fox-woman.
“Yes,” the winter man replied, the icicles of his hair clinking together as they ran. “It’s time we were gone.”
The wind whipped up around them, driving the snow into a maelstrom once more. In moments the sky was gray and the sun blotted out and the shouts of the hunters were muffled. Kitsune paused just ahead as she realized what was happening. They caught up to her and she smiled, revealing those too-sharp teeth, just before the driven snow whited out all of their surroundings. The forest was entirely gone.
And Oliver felt the world shift.
CHAPTER 8
The Whitney family lived in a Federal Colonial that had been built in the last decade of the eighteenth century for a sea captain by the name of George Jensen. The seaman had been forty-one at the time of his marriage to Ruth Anne Landry, twenty-year-old daughter of the town’s only baker. Her father had no dowry to speak of, but with a wife as fair as Ruth Anne, Captain Jensen felt he had all that he could ever have asked for.
The house had been built for her over the course of an entire year, painstakingly constructed to meet the standards of the captain, who felt that his home ought to be put together with at least as much care as his ship. Local legend held that he had never slept a single night in his own bed, that his last voyage ended in a storm at sea on the very same day that the builders declared the house complete and announced to Mrs. Jensen, now heavy with child, that she could begin to decorate and move the couple’s belongings into the sprawling home at her pleasure.
This was not precisely true. In fact, the captain had overseen the furnishing of his home and had spent several weeks there in his marital bed with his pregnant wife before sailing on that fateful voyage. The truth was less colorful but no less tragic than the legend.
On Monday afternoon, a small headache working through his brain like a burning fuse, Ted Halliwell sat in the parlor of the Captain Jensen House— as the plaque beside the front door proclaimed it— and listened to Marjorie Whitney tell the history of her home as she served him tea, smiled awkwardly, and did everything possible to postpone the moment when he would get what he had come here for: a meeting with her daughter, Julianna. The young woman Oliver Bascombe had left at the altar.
“That’s a wonderful story, Mrs. Whitney. You must love being surrounded by so much history here.” Halliwell sipped his tea, which tasted slightly of almonds, and then gingerly set the cup down. “But I really do need to speak with Julianna. Do you think she’ll be much longer?”
From the moment he had arrived, Marjorie Whitney had evinced a sort of brittle pleasantry. Now there was a crack in it, no different, he imagined, than a crack in the china cup.
“She went to the health club a while ago, as I told you, Deputy—”
“Detective, actually.”
The woman stiffened at the word. “I’m sure Julianna will be right down.” Her nostrils flared as she took a breath and seemed to steady herself. “Oh, I’ve been remiss. I think I may have some butter cookies in the pantry. Let me get some to go with your tea.”
“That’s all right. This is perfect,” Halliwell told her.
“It’s no trouble at all,” Mrs. Whitney replied, and then she was up and fleeing the room as though she meant never to return. And perhaps that was true.
Halliwell took a second sip of his bitter tea, mainly out of politeness, and then let it sit. He clasped his hands on top of his knees and tried not to get too comfortable on the floral-patterned love seat where Mrs. Whitney had steered him upon his arrival. He wanted to get up, to wander around the room, but he did not want the woman to think he had been snooping if she ever did come back with those butter cookies. Despite his demurral, the thought of cookies made his stomach rumble and he had to try to remember the last time he had eaten.
Several minutes went by and he began to feel trapped on the love seat. He stared at his teacup and the tray that Mrs. Whitney had set out with a pot, cups and saucers, milk and lemon, and a ceramic strawberry that was actually a sugar bowl. When he found himself reaching for the teacup again, he knew it was time to get up.
He had just risen to his feet when Julianna entered the room.
“Detective Halliwell? Sorry to have kept you waiting.”
“I understand. I was a bit earlier than we’d agreed. I appreciate you taking the time to meet with me.”
Halliwell had been a cop for a long time. He knew better than to mention her aborted wedding, or even to offer his condolences, before they’d had a chance to build up to it.
Julianna was an attractive woman with fine, delicate features that seemed out of place. It took Halliwell a moment to realize that it was her height that gave that impression. He figured her for five foot nine at least, probably taller, and her elegant features and stylishly cut auburn hair belied her formidable physical presence. He was vaguely aware that she worked at Bascombe & Cox, and thought that if she was a lawyer, she’d be the center of attention in any courtroom.
“It’s no trouble at all,” she said. The precise words her mother had used minutes before. But just as with her mother, it was a lie. He could see the pain in her eyes, the regret and grief. “I’ve known Mr. Bascombe my entire adult life. I can’t imagine—”
She shook her head and one of her hands fluttered up as though pushing away whatever words would have come next.
“You know Collette Bascombe quite well also.”
Julianna nodded. “Oliver’s very close to his sister. Collette lives in New York now, and when she married they didn’t get to see each other as often as they’d have liked. But, yes, through him I know Collette very well. She’s a friend. I don’t have any siblings, and she always treated me a bit like a little . . .” A wan smile lifted one corner of her mouth. “Like a little sister. So much for that.”
Halliwell kept his expression neutral. “You don’t think you’ll be able to maintain a friendship with Collette, whatever comes of your relationship with her brother?”
“I’d like to think I could. But that’s just wishful thinking. I love her, but she’s still Oliver’s sister. And it’s going to . . .” She frowned, hesitating a moment as she focused on Halliwell. Her lips pressed tightly together, forming a white line, and then she let out a breath that was not quite a sigh. “Well, it’s going to take a while for me to process all of what I feel toward Oliver right now. I can’t imagine that not affecting my relationship with Collette.”
Halliwell slid his hands into his pockets and strode toward the window. He could feel her watching him but he gave her a moment without the pressure of his attention and instead looked out at the snow-covered lawn.
“Is there any word?” Julianna ventured at last, words catching in her throat. “About Collette, I mean.”
The detective shook his head even as he turned. “Nothing yet, I’m afraid. But there was nothing at the house to suggest that Miss Bascombe’s been harmed in any way.”
Anger flared in Julianna Whitney’s eyes. “What, other than her father’s corpse, you mean?”
Then her jaw dropped and she blanched, covering her mouth in obvious surprise that the words had come out. “I’m . . . sorry. I know what you meant. I’m more than a little on edge.”
“I understand. And I wish there was something I could tell you to set your mind at ease. Nothing about this situation is pleasant. Mr. Bascombe’s murder is a horrible thing, but with both of his children missing, we can’t even begin to get a picture of the time that led up to his murder. The only way for us to do that is to find Oliver and Collette. Is there anything you can think of that might help us with that? Anywhere the two of them might go together or anyone they would contact if they wanted to get away for a while?”
Her eyes narrowed in confusion. “I thought that Collette . . . well, that whoever killed Mr. Bascombe—”
“That’s one possibility. We have to look at it from every angle, Miss Whitney.”
Julianna shrugged. “All right. In any case, the answer is no. There isn’t anywhere I can think of. I mean, their lives were spent in that house. I assume the police in New York have checked Collette’s place there.”
“It’s covered. What about Oliver? Any place you think he would run to if he needed to think? Favorite childhood vacation spot? Great-aunt in Montreal? Anything at all?”
Her hand trembled as she reached up to push her hair away from her face. She stared at Halliwell as if he were some hideous new form of life that had just crawled out of the sea. “Run. You said run. Has Oliver got a reason to run? You can’t possibly think . . . oh, Christ, you can’t believe that he would . . .”
She could not even finish the sentence.
Halliwell did not flinch beneath her accusatory stare. “It’s no secret that Oliver didn’t get along well with his father, Miss Whitney. He hasn’t exactly been acting himself lately, has he? You never thought he’d leave you at the altar, did you?”
He regretted the question the instant it left his lips, but could not take it back or temper the edge with which he had spoken. The hurt in her eyes had been deep enough, and now he had added to it.
“No,” she said softly, horror and doubt creeping into her voice and her expression as she entertained the idea for the first time. Halliwell wished he could have spared her that.
“I’m sorry, but as I said, we’ve got to look at every angle.”
His cell phone began to vibrate in his pocket. The ringer was off and the vibrate function always startled him. He flinched and then slid the phone out, flipped it open, and glanced at the incoming number. It was the sheriff’s office.
“Give me a moment, would you?” he asked. Julianna ignored him, staring off into the shadows of the parlor. He punched the TALK button on the phone. “Halliwell.”
“Detective, it’s Nora Costello. The sheriff wanted me to pass something on to you but he didn’t want to do it by radio.”
Halliwell frowned. All of the privacy of this thing was getting more and more under his skin. Max Bascombe was a homicide victim. The case would get investigated. It wasn’t the first time the sheriff’s department had gotten involved in a murder investigation in one of the local towns. But the sheriff was doing everything as quietly as possible, trying his damnedest to keep the Bascombe case out of the newspapers and out of local gossip as well. Halliwell figured it was a useless effort. The case was too big to keep anything private and the sheriff knew that. But the man was beholden to others who were going to try to control the flow of information and he had to play the game.
Ted Halliwell hated games.
“All right, Nora. Let’s have it.”
“Have you ever been up to Cottingsley?”
“Once. A long time ago. Cute little village in Aroostook County.”
“A little girl was murdered there yesterday, right out in public in the middle of an outdoor skating rink. Her . . . it was her eyes, like the Bascombe case.”
Halliwell held his breath. What the hell was this? Cottingsley was a hundred miles from Kitteridge, probably more. What were the odds that two murders could take place on the same day, share that ghastly similarity, and not be related? But that wasn’t just around the corner. If the Cottingsley murder had happened during the day and the killer had then driven south to Kitteridge, it wasn’t likely to be random, him showing up at the Bascombe house. On top of all of the other mysteries, not least of which was how Oliver and Collette had left their home in the first place, here was another.