Page 52 of Murder By the Millions

“Temperate, because the Urubamba River flows past the citadel and cuts through the Cordillera Mountains, creating a tropical mountain climate.”

“Are you reading the words off a brochure?”

She chuckled. “You caught me. This trip was your father’s decision. Next one’s mine. I’m thinking Antarctica. I’d love to see penguins in their natural habitat. Oh, to be at the end of the world, where there’s absolutely no permanent human habitation.” She sighed dreamily. “So …” She dragged out the word, as if expecting me to speak. When I didn’t, she said, “Why are you calling? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“Liars never prosper,” she cautioned.

“I don’t lie.”Or rarely do,I mused. If only I hadn’t to Zach.

“Then you’re stretching the truth. Spill. Don’t tell me there’s been another murder.”

“Mom.” I didn’t regret using the term. “How did you guess? Yes. A man. A developer. I found him.”

“Heavens, Allie, you stumbled upon another body? Your karma is totally out of whack.”

I couldn’t disagree.

“Bramblewood is so dangerous,” she added.

“Every place in the world has its issues. Even Machu Picchu.”

“Why haven’t I read anything about the murder?”

Why would you have? I mused. She read newsletters likeAbstract and Applied AnalysisandDuke Mathematical Journal.Those kinds of publications kept her up-to-date about scientific and statistical discoveries. She’d always hoped I’d follow in her footsteps, but math and I were not friends. Chemistry, yes. Math, no. I’d needed Tegan’s help to get me through calculus.

“When did it happen?” she asked.

“Last night. He was new to town. He was working on securing the right to build a mall on the four historic properties across the street from the Congregational church.”

“The nerve. Those are sacred homes. Originals.” Her fevered pitch surprised me. She didn’t care a fig about Bramblewood. She’d never enjoyed living here, hence the reason she and my father were in constant motion, spending their life savings, of which they had plenty. My father, a knowledgeable and successful venture capitalist until he retired, had invested wisely. “Did you know your nana’s best friend lived in the blue Victorian with white trim?”

“She did?”

“Yes. Her name was Cora Yeager.”

“Interesting. Reika Moore, who runs the history museum, said Cora was her mother’s best friend, too.”

“Everybody knew Cora.” Fern chuckled. “She was a rascal. And quite wealthy.”

“I heard the Yeagers owned all the properties.”

“Yes. Four in a row. Her family were original settlers. After they passed on, she rented the homes but never divested herself of them. When her daughter was a teenager, the girl wanted to move north to pursue a career on Broadway, but Cora put her foot down.” She took a deep breath. “‘Absolutely not. You will live and die in Bramblewood,’” Fern said in an emotive, actressy way, contrary to her own steady voice. “Years later, her daughter married and had a child. When the girl was four, Cora’s daughter and her husband relocated to New York. After they moved, Cora declined, went into a nursing home, and, still upset with her daughter, left all the properties to Bramblewood as a gift.”

“Did Cora have any skeletons in the closet that might have pitted the town against preserving the properties?” I mean, why else would they want to sell the properties, unless Bramblewood needed the cash?

“I haven’t a clue.” Fern cleared her throat. “Allie, what are you going to do?”

“About?”

“You solved Marigold’s murder. Will you dig into this one? After all, you stumbled upon the body. Do you have any theories?”

“Fern …” I paused, choosing my words carefully. “I should mention I’m a suspect.”

“Wh-what?” she stammered. “How in the world …?”

I explained the circumstantial evidence—the spearhead, the Celtic knot earring, my presence, the missing text messages. “Also, I objected to Jason destroying the historic sites. Detective Armstrong—”