The Shape of Night(53)

“What happens tonight?”

“Tonight you sleep. Be unafraid,” he whispers. “I will let no harm come to you.”

And that night I do sleep, safe in the circle of his arms.





Twenty-One


It’s the talk of the town the next afternoon. I first hear about it when I’m buying groceries at the Village Food Mart, a shop so small you have to use a handbasket to collect your items because no shopping cart will make it down the narrow aisles. I stand at the vegetable section, perusing the pitiful choices of lettuce (iceberg or romaine), tomatoes (beefsteak or cherry), and parsley (curly or nothing). Tucker Cove may be a summer paradise but it’s at the end of the grocery supply line, and since I missed shopping at yesterday’s weekly farmer’s market, I’m forced to take what I can get at the Food Mart. As I’m bending down to scavenge some red potatoes from the bin, I hear two women gossiping in the next aisle.

“…and the police showed up at his house with a search warrant, can you believe it? Nancy saw three police cars parked out in front.”

“Oh my god. You don’t really think he killed her?”

“They haven’t arrested him yet, but I think it’s just a matter of time. After all, there was the thing that happened to that other girl. At the time, everyone thought it had to be him.”

    I crane my neck around the end of the display case to see two silver-haired women, their shopping baskets still empty, clearly more engaged in gossip than in groceries.

“Nothing was ever proved.”

“But now it seems more likely, doesn’t it? Since the police are taking such an interest in him. And there’s that old woman he worked for years ago, up on the hill. I always wondered what she really died of…”

As they move away toward the paper goods, I can’t help but trail after them, just to catch more of the conversation. I pause in front of the toilet tissue, pretending to mull over which brand to choose. There’s a total of two options—how ever shall I decide?

“You just never know, do you?” one of the women says. “He always seemed so nice. And to think our minister hired him last year, to install the new pews. All those sharp tools he works with.”

They are definitely talking about Ned Haskell.

I pay for the groceries and walk out to my car, disturbed by what I’ve just heard. Surely the police have their reasons to focus on Ned. The women in the store had talked about another girl. Was she too a murder victim?

Right down the street is Branca Property Sales and Management. If anyone has their finger on the pulse of a community, it’s a Realtor. Donna will know.

As usual, she’s sitting at her desk, the phone pressed to her ear. She glances up and quickly ducks her head, avoiding my gaze.

“No, of course I had no idea,” she murmurs into the phone. “He’s always been perfectly reliable. I’ve never had any complaints. Look, can I call you back? I have someone in the office.” She hangs up and reluctantly turns to face me.

“Is it true?” I ask. “About Ned?”

“Who told you?”

    “I heard two women talking about it at the grocery store. They said the police searched his house this morning.”

Donna sighs. “There are too many damn gossips in this town.”

“So it is true.”

“He hasn’t been arrested. It’s not fair to assume he’s guilty of anything.”

“I’m not assuming anything, Donna. I like Ned. But I heard them say there was another girl. Before Charlotte.”

“That was just a rumor.”

“Who was the girl?”

“It was never proved.”

I rock forward until I’m practically face-to-face with her. “You rented me the house. For weeks, he was working right above my bedroom. I deserve to know if he’s dangerous. Who was the girl?”

Donna’s lips tighten. Her friendly Realtor mask is gone and in its place is the worried face of a woman who withheld the vital detail that a killer might have been working inside my house.

“She was just a tourist,” says Donna. As if that made the victim less worthy of consideration. “And it happened six, seven years ago. She was renting a cottage on Cinnamon Beach when she vanished.”

“The way Charlotte vanished.”

“Except they never found Laurel’s body. Most of us assumed she went swimming and drowned, but there was always a question. Always these whispers.”

“About Ned?”

She nods. “He was working in the cottage next door to hers, renovating a bathroom.”

“That’s hardly a reason to be considered a suspect.”

“He had her house keys.”

I stare at her. “What?”

“Ned claimed he found them on Cinnamon Beach, where he scavenges driftwood for his sculptures. Laurel’s rental agent spotted the keys on the dashboard of Ned’s truck, and she recognized her agency key ring. That’s all the police had on him, just the missing woman’s keys, and the fact he was working right next door to her cottage. They never found her body. There was no evidence of violence in the cottage. They weren’t sure any crime at all was committed.”

    “Now there has been a murder. Charlotte’s. And Ned was working right there, in her house. In my house.”