Secluded Cabin Sleeps Six(57)

“Based on the information you gave me, and the new information I got from your aunt, when I was in Tucson on vacation, I was able to track down the family of Alice’s old employer,” said West.

Alice it seemed had stolen money from Ms. Watson; Tom, according to his sister, had suspected that Alice might have been responsible for the old woman’s death—an error with her medication. Maybe an accident. Maybe not.

Henry had felt a twinge of guilt. West, a stranger to Alice was using his vacation time to hunt Alice’s killer, while Henry had been doing everything he could to tamp down thoughts of her—burying himself in his studies, taking the train to see Piper on Friday nights, partying with her in the West Village all weekend, working nights in the school’s bursar’s office, digitizing records. Those years were good ones; he was so busy that he rarely thought about anything but what was right in front of him.

But Detective West hadn’t forgotten.

“Faith Watson’s daughter, Corinne, said that her brother, Tom, thought Alice tweaked the dosage on the old lady’s meds, then cleared out her accounts. But Tom was a bit of shady character—some drugs, perpetually unemployed. Corinne didn’t believe him, in fact, she’d suspected that Tom and Alice were involved.”

“That sounds like a pretty big lead.”

“Did you ever see her with a man in Tucson?”

Henry searched his memory. Maybe there was someone? A bearded man, smiling and holding a bouquet of wildflowers. There had been men, here and there. No one who’d made a lasting impression.

“Tom admitted to tracking Alice down, but said he never hurt her. Just asked for the money back. Said in exchange he wouldn’t tell the police what she’d done.”

“If he thought Alice killed his mother and took her money, why wouldn’t he call the police?”

The old man cleared his throat. In the background, Henry had heard the noises of the busy police station. He glanced at his watch, a gift from Piper’s parents on graduation. He had the urge to cut the conversation short. He’d been running late for work, and honestly he hadn’t wanted to talk about Alice.

“Good question. I wondered the same. But—there wasn’t any real evidence. Just his suspicions. Honestly, it didn’t seem like Tom cared that much about his mother or how she’d died. I think all he really cared about was the money.”

“How much?”

“About five thousand.”

“Did Alice have that? Did she give it to him?”

“He says no. As far as I found, your mother didn’t have a bank account. Unless she had one under another name. She didn’t even have a credit card. Maybe she had a stash of cash somewhere.”

“There was always money for whatever,” said Henry, remembering. “But I never found anything when we cleaned out the apartment.”

“So maybe the person who killed Alice took that money.”

Henry had turned the information around in his head, trying to fit this knowledge into the fractured pieces of his memory. It did make a kind of sense. They left places in the middle of the night. Alice always seemed to be in flight, looking over her shoulder. If she’d been taking money from people then fleeing, it made sense that she’d be worried someone would come after her.

So probably it was this guy Tom Watson. He’d killed her, taken whatever money she’d had. Or what if she ripped off other people in other places? Had someone finally caught up with her, just as she’d feared?

“It was this guy Tom Watson, right? It had to be.”

Detective West made a noise that was kind of like a verbal shrug. “He didn’t have any priors. No history of sexual assault or violence against women.”

“What about the DNA evidence? You said the technology was improving all the time.”

“Since Tom Watson was never arrested, there are no fingerprints or DNA records for him in the national databases.”

Henry stayed quiet. Then, “I mean—could you ask him to give it now since you’ve found him.”

Detective West grunted. “I did. And guess what? He said no.”

“You can’t force him?”

“I’d need a warrant, someone in his area to cooperate. But I don’t have the physical evidence for that.”

“So you don’t have enough evidence to collect more evidence?”

“Something like that. I’m sorry, son.” Detective West continued on into the silence. “Anyway, after I interviewed him and his sister, Tom Watson died last week. Heart attack.”

It wasn’t funny. But Henry almost laughed. In all those made-for-television movies he’d watched with Alice, all those unsolved mystery documentaries he watched with Piper, there was always something, no matter how small, no matter how many years later, that led to the truth. But the real truth was that many crimes went unsolved; so many questions were left unanswered. People did terrible things, then died unpunished. What if he, Henry, died one day, never knowing the truth of who he was? Would that mean he’d never really lived?

“I’m still looking, Henry.”

“I know you are, Detective.”

“What about your aunt. Did you ever connect with her?”

West asked him that every time. Henry usually made up some excuse for why he hadn’t gotten in touch. The woman, Alice’s sister, had sent him a few emails which he’d never answered. They were nice. We’re here for you, she’d written. We want you to be a part of our family.