Murder Takes the High Road(74)

I couldn’t help thinking that the reason was Donald Kresley.

Sure, Vanessa could have been dispatched by a deranged vigilante type. I didn’t like that idea because that was the argument that might be made against John. But more to the point, even if something like that might work in a book, it was really hard to believe anyone in real life would go to this much trouble and expense—to plan an execution motivated by principle alone for years.

Years.

No.

This murder wasn’t random or on impulse. Someone had plotted and planned—and invested a pretty penny—in order to come on this trip to kill Vanessa Rayburn. That alone spoke to a killer driven by deeply personal motives.

And that brought us—well, me—back to poor young Donald Kresley.

I knew where Nedda was coming from. In a mystery novel, the Kresley connection was too linear. Too obvious. Too simple. The salmon farm manager had it in for Vanessa for reasons unknown. Her long lost twin sister was out to take over her fortune. In fiction there would have to be another obscure and surprising reason for Vanessa’s death. But thanks to all those hours spent watching Homicide Hunter and Unusual Suspects and The Perfect Murder with Trevor, I knew only too well that in real life homicide, eight times out of ten the most obvious suspect was, indeed, the perp.

How boring was that? No wonder police got jaded.

No way in hell was I going to do any sleeping that night. What I wanted to do was sit down at my desk and get to work.

It didn’t make for great crime fiction, but nowadays a big part of detective work was done online. Not in John’s case, obviously, but my mean streets were the URLs of the internet.

However, listening to the wind howl outside those diamond-paned windows, I knew there would be no sleuthing that night. No sleuthing until the weather cleared and power—

I sat up.

What in God’s name was I thinking? The internet? There was an entire library downstairs stuffed with reference books on everything under the sun, including the life and crimes of Dame Vanessa Rayburn.

I went to the door, opened it and listened. Though the hall was in complete darkness, I could hear the buzz of voices.

Everyone was still awake. Still talking.

I would have to wait. I blew out my candle and felt my way across the room to sit beside the window.

The minutes ticked by. Then the hours. I was too tense. Too nervous to fall asleep. I was pretty sure no one was paying attention to me, but I’d have to be stupid not to recognize that there was a tiny element of risk. If I was having trouble sleeping, surely the person who had killed Vanessa would be even more keyed up.

As all mystery readers know, the second murder is very often motivated by fear of exposure and a guilty conscience.

It was just after one a.m. when I relit my taper, eased my door open again and listened intently. To my relief a heavy, exhausted silence met my ears. Mostly. Snores drifted from across the hall where the Poe sisters slept. Snores floated from down the hall where the Matsukados rested.

Good.

I slipped silently into the hall, softly closing my door, and crept down the staircase. The shadows thrown by the candle crouched over me menacingly, then melted into the corners. Last night seemed a lifetime since John and I had sneaked down the winding staircase, hurrying to catch his flight.

There was no hurrying this night. The light from my candle didn’t radiate far, and the steps were steep.

When I reached the library, the doors were closed, and for one awful moment, I thought they were locked. It turned out the handle was stuck and the right door swung silently open.

Closing the door behind me, I felt my way down the length of the room, nearly falling over a chair and then almost knocking a lamp off a table. The rain splashed against the window. The room smelled of old books and old rugs. It smelled like home.

About halfway down the long room, I found a flashlight that Hamish had been carrying earlier. The yellow beam threw a feeble, faded light over the old rugs and towering shelves.

I walked along the shelves until I found the true crime section again, and then began to pull out the books that I knew related to the Kresley killing.

Carrying a stack over to one of the long dark library tables, I began to read.

I had been over nearly all these accounts before. I knew Davidson’s Suspicious Circumstances and Wyecliff’s The Good Girl were the most sensational—and the most popular—but contained the most factual errors—or at least had received the most challenges to their research. The other three, Murder in Sussex, A Walk in the Woods and There Grows an Oak were considered the most comprehensive and complete accounts of both the crime and investigation. There Grows an Oak had won the Man Booker Prize for nonfiction.

I started with Murder in Sussex, refreshing myself with the details of the case. Forty-some years ago, fifteen-year-old Claire Sims had invited her classmate and sometimes boyfriend Donald Kresley to come for a walk in the woods not so far from Ashdown Forest, which had inspired the Hundred Acre Wood in the Winnie the Pooh books. It had been autumn, October. A cold, dreary Friday afternoon.

It was October now. Was that significant? I made a note.

Claire had come home three hours later, wet and muddy and sullen. Donald had never come home.

Kresley’s parents were not alarmed until bedtime came and there was still no sign of Donald. After all, he was sixteen and a responsible kid with many extracurricular activities, including a girlfriend.