Page 100 of Skeletons in the Closet

To keep myself busy, I traveled the meandering internet paths of Beth Rowell, Noah Willard, and Olivia Lansky’s lives. They all had a social media presence—most people did these days. Beth’s and Olivia’s were far more robust than Noah’s. I read posts going back months until I got bored, then I viewed their galleries of photographs.

Beth’s children took after her husband, whereas Olivia’s were her spitting image. I witnessed their weddings, one on a beach and one in a church, and I was privy to their endless vacations. Olivia traveled more: to Peru, Italy, New Zealand, Holland, Japan, and France. Beth preferred beach destinations. The Dominican Republic, Jamaica, and Mexico. They had gone to carnivals, theater productions, art shows, the zoo, amusement parks, boating, swimming, concerts, and more.

Noah’s photo gallery was minimal, although the section showing pictures he was tagged in was more substantial. I scrolled through them. Wedding photos—tagged by Faye. A few golf tournaments—tagged by a guy I assumed was a friend. Noah biking in an event—again, tagged by Faye. Noah taking part in a triathlon—again, Faye. Noah playing rugby, football, tennis, and soccer. The guy was heavily into sports. Noah and Faye at local baseball games, watching the Blue Jays. Noah with his face painted at a Buffalo Bills game. Noah waterskiing. Mostly his wife was the one who broadcasted his life. There were all kinds of photos of them together, lovingly smiling at the camera, kissing, and enjoying life. They looked happy.

It wasn’t until I got more than a decade deep into my investigation that I slowed and paid more attention. Beth and Olivia at university, both dating different men other than the ones they would eventually marry. Noah at a keg party, wearing a rugby shirt and looking beat up with a deep line of stitches running across his forehead, a hint of black eyes, but with a wide grin. He held a red solo cup in his hand, cheersing the photographer. The glassy sheen of his irises told a story of its own. Noah was trashed. Again, his pictures were all tags from other people.

A few of the photographs in the women’s albums were of college parties too. Since they all went to York at the same time, I scanned the people in the background, unsure what I was looking for. David maybe? Roan? I didn’t know. No one looked familiar.

I paused when I got to a group of pictures of Noah and Beth together.

“Well, well, well. What do we have here?” I muttered aloud.

Another drunken party. The two were kissing and appeared to be dancing the way drunk people danced. I read the caption beneath the image.

It seemed Noah and Beth had dated for a time. It didn’t take long before I found more of the three of them together. The time period matched, and I paid close attention to the dates.

My scroll was a reverse look at their lives. The further back I went, the younger they got. When I reached a time before university, I stopped my search and went back to the party days.

Again, I looked among the crowd, seeking more, but not finding anything.

I noted the vast majority of the party pictures happened the same year Roan Guterson was killed. Did they know him? Had they partied with him?

The chronology of photographs held no answers.

I did a similar search for Roan Guterson. Because he had been killed, the majority of what I found were memorial posts from friends and relatives, mourning his loss and offering condolences to his parents. His social media beforehand was less informative than Noah’s. A few family pictures, but not much else.

When nothing stood out, I switched to David Shore.

The statistics professor’s social media presence was almost nonexistent, so my search was short-lived.

Giving up, I balanced my chin on an upturned palm and stared at the computer screen, thinking.

I wondered if the homicide detectives had gone to chat with Natalia again and if we would be too late. I wondered what they’d found in Shore’s car that made them certain he was guilty. Was it even the car that had sealed his fate? The crime was more than a decade old. It seemed impossible.

Curious, I did more research into the professor, eventually finding out that David Shore had the same car registered to his name for the past fifteen years. It was purchased new in 2009, a year before the supposed hit-and-run.

Knowing Doyle and Fox had probably already done it, I made a request to the Ministry of Transportation for a vehicle history on David Shore’s car. It wasn’t hard to get the VIN. There may have been all kinds of things I didn’t have access to in our system, being nothing more than a lowly records clerk, but there was a lot of information available if I knew where to look.

It was five, and I had thirty minutes left of my shift. Since the woman possessed some kind of weird hippy voodoo magic, I called Kitty on the off chance she might have helpful knowledge.

She answered on the second ring, and when she realized who it was, she cooed, “Oh, Tallus, love. I heard you weren’t well. Those darn migraines. They are so unkind to you.”

“I’m okay now, Kitty Kat. Right as rain. You know me. I bounce right back. Was it crazy busy while I was gone?”

She tittered. “That office hasn’t been crazy since I started working there.”

I smiled. I really did love the woman. “I hope you weren’t too bored without me.”

“Of course I missed your company, but that’s okay. I’m glad you’re better. What’s got you calling?”

“Well, I know this is a long shot, but since you’re a witch, I figured I’d ask. Did you hear anything about the David Shore arrest yesterday?” I didn’t elaborate on who David Shore was or what he’d been arrested for. Kitty and her strange wisdom would likely already know, and I was right.

“Oh yes. The hit-and-run from 2010.”

“You astound me, Kitty Kat.”

“I heard they found a bloody rag tucked away under the panel in the trunk. Two types of blood on it, to be precise. They matched one to the man who was killed. Had it on file. Came up right away and sent the boys running. Now, what was his name? Roan something or other.”

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