The Shape of Night(51)

“All we can tell you is this is a homicide investigation.”

My cellphone rings, but I don’t even bother to look at who’s calling; I let it go to voicemail and stay focused on the detectives.

“Were there bruises?” I ask. “Did the killer leave any marks?”

Vaughn says, “Why are you asking, ma’am?”

“I’m just trying to understand why you’re so certain it was murder. How do you know she didn’t just fall off a boat and drown?”

“There was no seawater in her lungs. She was dead before her body entered the water.”

    “But it could still be an accident. Maybe she fell on the rocks. Hit her head and—”

“It was not an accident. She was strangled.” He watches as I take in this information, no doubt wondering if these details are more than I can handle and he’ll have a hysterical woman on his hands. But I sit perfectly still as I consider what he’s just told me. There’s so much more I want to know. Were there broken bones? Bruises left by real hands made of real flesh? Can mere ectoplasm kill a woman?

Could Captain Brodie?

I look down at my left wrist, remembering the bruise that has since faded. A bruise that I found the morning after my first encounter with the ghost. Had I caused that bruise myself while stumbling around in a drunken stupor, as I have on more than one occasion? Or was that bruise the evidence that he can inflict real harm on the living?

“Have there been other break-ins since the night you called the Tucker Cove police?” Detective Perry asks.

I shake my head. “No.”

“Anyone calling you, harassing you?”

“No.”

“We understand from Ms. Branca that there’s been some carpentry work done here recently.”

“Yes, up in the turret and the widow’s walk. They’ve already finished the renovations.”

“How well do you know the carpenters?”

“I saw Billy and Ned almost every day for weeks, so I’d say we’re well acquainted.”

“Did you spend much time talking to them?”

“I used them as my guinea pigs.” At Vaughn’s raised eyebrow, I give a laugh. “I’m a cookbook author. I’m writing a book about traditional New England foods and I’ve been testing recipes. Billy and Ned were always happy to sample the results.”

    “Did either one of them ever make you feel uncomfortable?”

“No. I trusted them enough to let them come and go even when I wasn’t here.”

“They had a key to the house?”

“They knew where to find it. I left the spare key for them on top of the doorjamb.”

“So one of them could have made a copy of that key.”

I shake my head in bewilderment. “Why are you asking about them?”

“They were also working in this house while Ms. Nielson lived here.”

“Do you actually know Billy and Ned?”

“Do you, ma’am?”

That makes me pause. In truth, how can we truly know anyone? “They never gave me a reason not to trust them,” I say. “And Billy, he’s just a kid.”

“He’s twenty-three years old,” says Perry.

How odd that they already know Billy’s age. Now I do, as well. They don’t need to point out the obvious: that twenty-three-year-old men are capable of violence. I think of the muffins and stews and cakes I prepared for them, and how Billy’s eyes would light up whenever I appeared with new treats for them to sample. Was I feeding a monster?

“And the second carpenter? What do you know about Mr. Haskell?” His gaze offers no clue to what he’s thinking, but his questions have veered into disturbing territory. Suddenly we’re not talking about faceless intruders, but about people I know and like.

“I know he’s a master carpenter. Just look around, at what he’s done with this house. Ned told me he started working for the Sherbrooke family years ago. As a handyman for the owner’s aunt.”

“That would be the late Aurora Sherbrooke?”

“Yes. Why would he still be working for the Sherbrooke family if there’d been any problems? And he’s more than just a carpenter. He’s also a well-regarded artist. The gallery downtown sells his carvings of birds.”

    “So we hear,” says Perry, sounding unimpressed.

“You should take a look at his work. His pieces are even sold in galleries in Boston.” I look back and forth at the two detectives. “He’s an artist,” I repeat, as if that excludes him as a suspect. Artists create, they don’t destroy. They don’t kill.

“Did Mr. Haskell ever say or do anything that bothered you? Struck you as inappropriate or made you uneasy?”

Something has changed here. Both of these men have leaned ever so slightly forward, their eyes fixed on me. “Why are you asking about Ned?”

“These are routine questions.”

“They don’t sound routine.”

“Please, just answer the question.”

“All right, then. Ned Haskell never once made me uncomfortable. He never scared me. I like the man, and I trusted him enough to give him access to my house. Now tell me why you’re focused on him.”