Page 11

Rowan

“Rowan?”

I look up from my computer, where I’d been searching for news updates on Tim’s murder. “Yes?”

“Didn’t you say you were going to get coffee?” Beatrice prompts from her desk across the room.

“Oh. Sorry.” I did say that, but then I’d forgotten. Now I push my chair back.

“Or I could go,” she says. “It’s no problem. But you said you could use a break.”

“I’m going,” I insist. My finger hovers on the lid of my laptop. Senseless Murder at the Wincott Mansion . No Suspects Yet . The article speculates that he was killed for his “valuables.” Which must mean his wallet and his computer.

I close my laptop, unease swamping me again.

“Survivor’s guilt,” my father said last night, as we were washing the dishes together. “That’s normal.”

He’s a shrink, always quick with a diagnosis. But he has a point. I’d been so angry at Tim. I’m struggling with the idea that I was thinking mean thoughts about him—probably during the minutes that he’d died.

“Rowan?” Beatrice prods gently.

I rise from my seat. “Should we have half caf? It’s almost three.”

She’s about to answer when the lights flicker again.

My eyes fly to the fixture on my desk, which blinks one more time before steadying. “You know what? At this point I actually hope the mansion is haunted. It would explain a few things.”

Beatrice makes a grumpy noise and stands up. She hates it when any one mentions ghosts. She feels it’s undignified. “I’ll walk with you. I haven’t been outside all day.”

In other words, I seem like someone who needs babysitting. “Sure. But it’s my turn to buy.”

“Sweet. Let’s hustle.” She heads for the door. “Don’t forget that you have a call with the glazier at four.”

“Right. Thank you.” I trail her into the library. It’s not really her job to keep my calendar. She’s not my personal assistant. But there’s no denying that I’m operating at 50 percent capacity today. “After that call, I have to head out. The funeral starts at five thirty.”

She looks over her shoulder. “You want company for that, too?”

Yes. Desperately . “No, I’m okay.”

I don’t mention that I still have Tim’s watch and cufflinks, too. It feels tawdry, but I need to return them to his family. I follow her into the corridor.

“Back door,” Beatrice says, just as I turn reflexively toward the front.

“Oh. Shit.” I reverse course immediately. “Good call.” I’d forgotten about the police tape in front and the gawkers.

Beatrice leads the way toward the back, which means descending a few steps into the grim, cavernous galley. There are no Greek gods on the walls in here. This was a room where servants worked.

My plan for this space will divide it into a sleek catering kitchen and a passageway toward the Orangerie, which is what I’m calling the new glassed-in gathering space at the back of the mansion.

There was once a real orangerie on the property. I found a reference to it in the old plans for the house, and Hank was charmed by my idea to reference it in the new design.

Of course he was. Growing citrus fruit out of season was the way the elite of New England used to show off their wealth. Before there were Amex Black Cards or private jets.

Beatrice stops at the exit. “Remember the new code for the door?”

“Um...” It takes me a second. “Eighteen-sixty-one.” It’s the first year that Amos Wincott lived in his new home.

“Then press pound.”

“Got it.”

We slip outside together, and I look carefully around the backyard. We seem to be alone, but I’m too shaky for surprises.

Beatrice seems less afraid, or at least she’s the better actor. She heads straight into the yard, avoiding even a glance toward the parking lot, where there might still be traces of blood on the ground.

I follow her in silence. The grass is tatty back here, owing to all the contractors’ activity. We approach the tool trailer. It blocks the back portion of the yard, and my footsteps slow as we approach its shadow.

Beatrice turns to look over her shoulder. “You okay?”

“Yes,” I say shakily. But then I remember Lickie’s reaction to the trailer on the night I’d found Tim, how she’d tugged on the leash. My feet grind to a halt.

“Rowan?” Beatrice asks, stopping to look at me.

“I just remembered something. From that night.”

She gapes at me. “Really? Something you saw?”

“No. But I wonder if Lickie did. She practically pulled me off my feet when I was in view of the tool trailer. I forgot until just now.”

Beatrice swivels, taking in our surroundings. It would be so easy for someone to hide behind the trailer or the dumpster. We’d never see them from this angle.

“You think someone was lurking back here?” she asks me.

“Maybe?” I say queasily. “Impossible to say now. And I guess it could have been anyone.”

“Or a squirrel.”

I give her a weak smile. “True.”

Beatrice makes a point of checking behind the trailer as she passes it.

Before I follow her, I pause and look back at the mansion, which looms over us, darkening the property with her angular shadow. What happened? Why did Tim have to die? And why here?

The mansion offers no answers.

We head toward Orange Street, approaching the only grave on the property. It’s an elaborate headstone carved with an angel cradling a baby. MARCUS WINCOTT: 1925–1997.

My skin prickles with awareness when we pass the grave.

I hurry after Beatrice through a stand of mature trees. Last week I thought this part of the property was majestic. Today it seems like another place for someone to hide.

We finally reach the sidewalk and turn wordlessly to the north. The coffee shop is three blocks away. “You sleeping any better?” Beatrice asks eventually.

“Somewhat,” I lie. “Coffee will help.”

But it’s hard to imagine ever sleeping well again.

***

The coffee shop is quiet when we step inside, but my head echoes loudly with memories of Tim.

The burly, tattooed barista waves me over. “Omigod, hiiii! I’m so sorry. I just can’t believe it. When I saw his photo on the news? I was shocked. Never had a regular get murdered before.”

And now I wish I’d let Beatrice do the coffee run alone. My sluggish brain can’t figure out what to say to this near stranger. “I’m sorry, too. It’s shocking.”

“You must be out of your mind.” He runs a hand through his curly hair and visibly shivers. “It’s just fucked up, you know? The police had better solve this.”

I nod, fighting the urge to spit my coffee order at him so I can leave.

“He was just so nice . And you guys were, like, my little afternoon fairy tale.”

That’s what you think . But I’m not going to stand here and argue the point.

“I mean, that first time? When he came in and showed me your picture?” He clutches his hand to his chest. “It was the most romantic thing.”

“Sorry? What?”

His eyes widen comically. “Wait, he didn’t come clean about that? Oh, it was fricking adorable.” He laughs. “So, yeah. Before you guys had a coffee together at table six?” He points vaguely in the direction of the windows. “He came in, like, the day before, with your picture on his phone. He says, ‘I met this great lady in here a year ago. We talked for hours, but I was just passing through. Now I’m back, and I never forgot her. Does she still come in here?’ ”

I stare at him. “He did what? ”

“I know, right?” The guy nods his shaggy head, all wrapped up in his anecdote. “I told him you usually turned up in the afternoon, and he smiled. It was the most romantic thing I ever heard. He never forgot you.”

“Okay, look,” Beatrice says crisply. “You’re upsetting my friend. Any chance we could get two half-caf coffees to go?”

The barista—Davey, according to his name tag—swipes at his eyes. Then he seems to gather himself. “Sure. Sorry. So sorry for your loss.” He grabs two paper cups off the stack.

I pull a twenty out of my wallet, dumbfounded by what he said. I never met Tim until he introduced himself that day in April, and so we sure as hell never had the conversation the barista described.

Beatrice doctors our coffees, and I cash out, dropping a five into the tip jar. Then she tows me outside. “Okay, what the fuck? Did you really meet Tim a year ago?”

“No!” My heart spasms in time with our footsteps. “That story made no sense.”

Beatrice marches me down Danforth. “So... Tim lied?”

“Maybe? I just can’t picture it.”

“You’re a catch, Rowan. But it’s hard to imagine him haunting the neighborhood, trying to figure out where you like to buy your coffee and quizzing baristas just because he liked your picture in the paper. If it’s true, that makes him a creep.”

“ If it’s true,” I echo. I try to picture Tim scoping out the neighborhood, trying to craft a spontaneous meeting. There aren’t many coffee shops on the West End. He wouldn’t have to ask more than a couple of baristas Does she come in here?

Still. That’s oddball behavior. I can’t imagine he’d do that.

“What if our man Davey is just confused?” Beatrice wonders. “Baristas meet a lot of people. Maybe it was some other dude who told him the story about meeting a girl and then losing track of her.”

“Maybe,” I say slowly. “That’s a pretty good theory. Tim wouldn’t have bothered.”

“And it’s not like you can ask him,” Beatrice points out, striding onward.

“Nope,” I say with a dull finality. “Could you slow down, though? These shoes are killing me.” They’re the ones I’d reclaimed from Natalie, and they do pinch my toes, damn it.

“Sure, sorry,” Beatrice says. “That story just put me on edge.”

It would have done the same for me, but I was already there.

***

Five o’clock comes before I’m ready. Beatrice leaves first. “Take care of yourself tonight,” she says gently.

“I will,” I promise. “Thank you.”

Her footsteps echo as she retreats from the room, and I put my face in my hands.

It’s time to pull myself together and go to Tim’s funeral. But I’m so full of dread. I don’t know what I’ll find to say to his parents. Not after what I saw.

I stand up and button my blazer. It’s either leave or sit here ten yards from where it happened.

After grabbing my handbag, I switch off the desk lamp, plunging the library into gloomy shadows. This room made me uncomfortable before Tim’s death, so I don’t waste time as I propel myself out of the office suite and through the atrium. The echo makes it sound as if ghosts are on my heels.

When I reach the door, I pause for a moment and put my hand on the lion’s head that’s artfully carved in walnut above the brass mail slot. Sometimes tourists poke open the mail slot to get a peek inside.

Not two weeks ago I’d told Tim all about this door. How the craftsmen used four different kinds of wood, to prevent warping. How it was one of the only things in the house that actually came from Maine. The sandstone cladding came from Connecticut, but almost everything else was shipped from Europe—marble from Italy. Rugs from France.

“All that trouble just to show off,” Tim said.

I shiver, remembering exactly how he smiled at me after he said it. Like we were in on the same secret.

I hear a creak, and the hair stands up on the back of my neck. I turn around sharply. But there’s nothing behind me.

Get moving, Gallagher . I grasp the iron handle and open the door. The new security system gives a low beep, and I immediately realize my error. The news trucks are finally gone, but the gawkers aren’t. A handful of people linger on the other side of the boxwood hedge, scanning the police tape that’s still blocking off the gravel parking lot. They look up at me as I step outside.

Dropping my chin, I close the door and test the new lock to be sure that it holds. Then, without making any eye contact, I cross the porch and hurry down the steps.

Tim’s car is gone now, thank God. There’s literally nothing to see. I’ve never understood why death and violence always draw a crowd, but until Thursday night, I don’t think I understood that someone close to me could be murdered. I’d felt immune.

I don’t anymore.

The funeral home is on State Street, so I walk inland. The wind kicks up, and a seagull flies past overhead, casting a mournful cry.

I take a different route than we took earlier, just so I can avoid passing the coffee shop. So there’s no chance of running into Davey the barista.

His story bothers me. The day Tim had introduced himself used to be a happy memory. I just don’t buy the idea that he staked me out beforehand. Tim didn’t have a creepy vibe at all.

Beatrice called him a bore, but it was more accurate to say that he was a little old-fashioned. He read a lot of books and favored older music. He had old-school manners, too, like pulling out my chair at restaurants and texting in full sentences. With punctuation.

That’s what I’d liked best about him. I’ve already had a lifetime’s worth of bad-boy antics. (See: Natalie’s father.) The whole reason I dated Tim was that he seemed settled. Rational.

And I still believe that. The barista’s story just doesn’t add up.

It’s getting close to five thirty, so I pick up my pace to the funeral home. It’s a stately old mansion in the Federal style with five Ionic columns lined up on the porch. They’re painted in a crisp white. Mourners in tasteful clothing stream past them toward the entrance.

I recognize no one.

On the porch, one of the heavy paneled doors is propped open. Inside, I see a large foyer, decorated to look tasteful, but solemn. My shoes sink into the thick carpet. The wooden furniture gleams. Bach plays softly on the sound system.

There must be a style guide somewhere for funeral homes. Architecture for Bereavement: Sad people require classical lines, heavy moldings, gently creaking floors. Nothing too rococo—that’s gauche. But nothing too sunny. Danish modern or mid-century furnishings are disrespectful to the dead.

Even as I’m having this slightly unhinged thought, it occurs to me that Tim would find it funny. He liked my nerdy observations about architecture. At least, he said he did.

The parade of people in front of me slowly filters through a set of double doors. Beyond, I get a glimpse of a big room heaving with people.

I’m just about to step inside when I hear, “Mom, wait!”

I spin around, surprised to see Natalie hurrying toward me. For one terrible moment, I assume that something is wrong. But then I notice her outfit—black jeans plus a black blouse from my closet.

“Am I dressed okay for a funeral?” she asks.

“Of course,” I sputter. “But I didn’t expect to see you here.” I hadn’t even told her where it was.

“Don’t you want me to come?” She looks stricken. “I was trying to be supportive.”

“Oh, I do .” My voice almost breaks. “Sorry.” I reach out and hug her, which she allows. “Thank you. But are you sure?” I glance at the crowded room full of somber faces. “Don’t you have an exam tomorrow?”

She gives me a look that implies I’m insane. “It’s only Spanish. Let’s get seats. If there are any.”

The regular chairs are taken, so we end up on a bench against the paneled back wall. This suits me fine. I don’t need a direct line of sight to the coffin at the front of the room.

“Do you know anyone here?” Natalie whispers.

I shake my head. “Your grandmother had a rule—always go to the funeral. Even if it makes you uncomfortable. Even if you’re not sure it matters.”

“But I didn’t go to hers,” Natalie points out.

“You were five. She would have understood.”

Natalie takes the program out of my hands. It’s just a folded page that reads: Timothy Everett Kovak, February 1, 1979–June 6, 2024 .

“He was an Aquarius. Clever. Self-reliant.” Natalie gives me a sideways glance. “But also moody and unpredictable.”

“Is that so?” I knew Tim well enough to be sure that he would have rolled his eyes at any mention of astrology, and yet I hadn’t known his middle name.

At the front of the room, a man with an acoustic guitar slung around his neck sets himself on a stool and begins to play. The song is Kamakawiwo‘ole’s version of “Over the Rainbow.”

Natalie puts down the program and listens.

The guitar notes wash over the room like a gentle rain. Voices go quiet. When the guitarist begins to sing, goose bumps rise on my arms.

After the first verse, I notice two older men taking the podium—a pastor and a rabbi. Tim had told me that his mother was Jewish, but not religious, and his father a “lapsed Catholic.”

It’s so easy to hear his voice in my head. He’s still in there.

Just as the song comes to a close, a woman opens the door and slips into the crowded room. Since I’m so near the door, she hovers at my elbow for a moment until I scoot a few inches closer to Natalie, making room on the bench.

“Thank you,” she whispers, claiming the seat.

I sneak a glance at her. She looks familiar, but it’s not the time or place to ask how I might know her.

The service begins with a greeting from the rabbi and a few words about Tim. It’s nice, but disorienting. I feel as though I’m hearing about a stranger.

Probably because I am.