Page 122 of Reading Between the Lines
“We got a call asking us to come in,” Delaney said, eyeing Costa. “They said it was about Weston.”
I didn’t have answers, but after introducing them to my cousin and explaining why Diem wasn’t with me, we followed them inside.
Delaney was enraged. Before she and her husband were escorted away, she promised to get Diem out of jail.
Two hours later, while warming a bench in the lobby, Lisa Jenkins, one of the homicide detectives I’d spoken to the previous day, appeared. She did a double take when she saw my cousin, her mouth quirking into a smile.
“What are you doing here?”
Costa swung an arm around my shoulder, tugging me against his side. “Moral support. I hear you’ve got my cousin’s partner in lockup. That’s not cool, Lisa.”
The detective huffed and glanced over her shoulder before lowering her voice. “We didn’t do that. Local police have their panties in a twist, but a lot more has come to light. He’s in an interview room,” Lisa said to me. “We’re going to chat again. Care to join us?”
I eagerly nodded.
“I’ll wait here,” Costa said.
I followed Lisa Jenkins to a different room than we’d used the previous day. Inside were Constable Hercules—looking like he’d been up all night—a police officer I didn’t know, Isaac Piggot—Lisa’s partner—and Diem. Delaney and Irvin were not present, so I assumed they were in a different interview room.
Diem looked worn out, face pinched in pain and exhaustion. He needed meds, and I was sure no one had bothered offering him so much as a single Tylenol. His eyes brightened when he saw me, and I chose the chair beside him.
“Are you okay?” he mumbled.
“Yeah. Costa rescued me.”
He grunted and moved his injured hand to my thigh. I found the tips of his fingers where they poked out of the cast and held them.
Isaac Piggott dropped Weston’s library copy ofThe Crimson Veilonto the middle of the table, pages still marked. “This wasmind-bending,” the detective said. “I’m not a fast reader, but I downloaded the audiobook and spent all night listening and taking notes.”
His gaze landed on Diem and me. “Impressive discovery. We got a tip yesterday afternoon from Doyle back home saying you two suspected the books were related to real murders. We’ve connected the three bodies found in the Port Hope area to three books in this series. This one”—he tapped the cover of the hardback in question—“makes four, and it’s the most eye-opening.”
Isaac consulted a notepad. “I didn’t finish the book, but here are some interesting details that bind our fictional killer with our person of interest. First off, he calls himself a family man. He describes how easy it is to blend into normal life when people see you as a loving father. He talks about his two children and how he wants to teach them everything he knows. He talks about the woman who birthed his children, how he thought she could be part of the plan, and how on their wedding day, he gave her the gift of honesty and told her about the life they could live together. How she rejected him. How he killed her. How he used her death as a stepping stone to teach his children family values. He talks about giving her body to god since she believed in him so fervently. Hence, the churchyard. We did not find the victim holding a ring, but he didn’t always detail everything exactly. The dress was white, not crimson, but she did wear a veil. Crimson could represent her death.
“In the book, the killer invents a story of having been left at the altar. His wife ran away, leaving him to raise his children alone.”
Piggott looked up from his notepad and scanned the people around the table. “Considering we found Hugh Abercrombie in the cemetery with his dead wife, a conviction seems inevitable. Anything in the cabin that might have connected him to thesebooks was destroyed, but—” He pinned Constable Hercules with a look.
Hercules shifted in his seat, looking uncomfortable. “But we’ve had continuous reports over the past two years from a man in town who raved about a killer in a cabin. He told us repeatedly he was out there writing his books and getting away with it. We looked into it a few times early on but decided it was the ravings of a drunken—”
“Old man McConaughy,” I interrupted. “He was in those woods. He pointed a rifle at us. His dog tried to eat me. He knew?”
Diem squeezed my fingers.
Piggott, Jenkins, and Hercules shared a look. It was the constable who spoke. “We think he might have suspected something.”
“The books are published under Publishaven. McConaughy used to work for them,” Diem said.
“And we believe he was familiar with Ambrose Whitaker’s work,” Jenkins said. “He might not have originally known who was behind the pseudonym, but we figure he put it together and tried to warn us.”
“Except you don’t listen to raving drunks, do you?” Diem’s question was more of a statement, and it was aimed at Hercules.
“We’re bringing McConaughy in for questioning,” Jenkins said.
“Weston marked several pages in that novel.” I gestured to TheCrimson Veil. “We think he also put it together and told Londyn. Londyn told Loyal, and—”
“We’re working on that too,” Piggott said. “The twins have yet to be located, but their involvement isn’t in question. We know enough from these books that Hugh was teaching both children his trade. It alone suggests Weston’s fall into the river was not an accident. Abercrombie isn’t talking. He’s waiting for his lawyer,who is coming up from Toronto once the storm passes. The kids can’t have gone far. Not in this weather. We have an APB out on them. They’ll be searching every rest stop in both directions along the highway. We’ll find them.”
“In the meantime,” Jenkins added, “we’d like to combine our notes with everything you discovered. The pictures you took at the cabin would be helpful, and we’d like you to make a report about the fire,” she said to me.
