Page 59 of The Shape of Night

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 therehasbeen a murder. Charlotte’s. And Ned was working right there, in her house. Inmyhouse.”

“But I didn’t hire him. Arthur Sherbrooke did. He insisted Ned had to do the renovations.”

“Why Ned?”

“Because he knows the house better than anyone. Ned used to work for Mr. Sherbrooke’s aunt, when she was still living there.”

“That’s the other gossip I heard today. Is there some question about how the aunt died?”

“Aurora Sherbrooke? None at all. She was old.”

“These women seemed to think Ned had something to do with the aunt’s death.”

“Jesus. The goddamn gossip in this town never ends!” The starch suddenly seems to go out of Donna and she slumps back in her chair. “Ava, I’ve known Ned Haskell all my life. Yes, I’ve heard the rumors about him. I know there are people who simply refuse to hire him. But I never thought he was dangerous. And Istilldon’t believe he is.”

Neither do I, but as I leave Donna’s office, I wonder how close I came to being another Charlotte, another Laurel. I think of him swinging a hammer in my turret, his clothes powdery with wood dust. He is powerful enough to strangle a woman, but could such a killer have also created those sweetly whimsical birds? Perhaps I missed something darker about them, some disturbing clue to a monster lurking inside the artist. Are there not monsters inside each and every one of us? I am all too well-acquainted with my own.

I climb into my car and have just buckled the seatbelt when my cellphone rings.

It’s Maeve. “I need to see you,” she says.

“Can we meet next week?”

“This afternoon. I’m on my way to Tucker Cove now.”

“What is this all about?”

“It’s about Brodie’s Watch. You need to move out, Ava. As soon as possible.”

—

Maeve hesitates on my front porch, as if summoning the courage to enter the house. Nervously she scans the foyer behind me and finally steps inside, but as we walk into the sea room she keeps glancing around like a frightened doe, on the alert for attacking teeth and claws. Even after she settles into a wingback chair, she still looks uneasy, a visitor in hostile territory.

From her shoulder bag she pulls out a thick folder and sets it on the coffee table. “This is what I’ve been able to track down so far. But there may be more.”

“About Captain Brodie?”

“About the women who’ve lived in this house before you.”

I open the folder. The top page is an obituary, photocopied from a newspaper dated January 3, 1901.Miss Eugenia Hollander, age 58, dies at home after falling on stairs.

“She died here. In this house,” says Maeve.

“This article says it was an accident.”

“That would be the logical conclusion, wouldn’t it? It was a winter’s night, cold. Dark. And those turret steps were probably only dimly lit.”

That last detail makes me glance up. “It happened on the turret staircase?”

“Read the police report.”

I turn to the next page and find a handwritten report by Officer Edward K. Billings of the Tucker Cove Police. His handwriting is exquisite, thanks to an era when schools demanded perfect penmanship. Despite the poor-quality photocopy, his report is readable.

The deceased is a fifty-eight-year-old lady, never married, who lived alone. Prior to this incident she was in excellent health, according to her niece Mrs. Helen Colcord. Mrs. Colcord last saw her aunt alive yesterday evening, when Miss Hollander seemed in good spirits and had eaten a hearty supper.

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