From the moment he had arrived, Marjorie Whitney had evinced a sort of brittle pleasantry. Now there was a crack in it, no different, he imagined, than a crack in the china cup.
“She went to the health club a while ago, as I told you, Deputy—”
“Detective, actually.”
The woman stiffened at the word. “I’m sure Julianna will be right down.” Her nostrils flared as she took a breath and seemed to steady herself. “Oh, I’ve been remiss. I think I may have some butter cookies in the pantry. Let me get some to go with your tea.”
“That’s all right. This is perfect,” Halliwell told her.
“It’s no trouble at all,” Mrs. Whitney replied, and then she was up and fleeing the room as though she meant never to return. And perhaps that was true.
Halliwell took a second sip of his bitter tea, mainly out of politeness, and then let it sit. He clasped his hands on top of his knees and tried not to get too comfortable on the floral-patterned love seat where Mrs. Whitney had steered him upon his arrival. He wanted to get up, to wander around the room, but he did not want the woman to think he had been snooping if she ever did come back with those butter cookies. Despite his demurral, the thought of cookies made his stomach rumble and he had to try to remember the last time he had eaten.
Several minutes went by and he began to feel trapped on the love seat. He stared at his teacup and the tray that Mrs. Whitney had set out with a pot, cups and saucers, milk and lemon, and a ceramic strawberry that was actually a sugar bowl. When he found himself reaching for the teacup again, he knew it was time to get up.
He had just risen to his feet when Julianna entered the room.
“Detective Halliwell? Sorry to have kept you waiting.”
“I understand. I was a bit earlier than we’d agreed. I appreciate you taking the time to meet with me.”
Halliwell had been a cop for a long time. He knew better than to mention her aborted wedding, or even to offer his condolences, before they’d had a chance to build up to it.
Julianna was an attractive woman with fine, delicate features that seemed out of place. It took Halliwell a moment to realize that it was her height that gave that impression. He figured her for five foot nine at least, probably taller, and her elegant features and stylishly cut auburn hair belied her formidable physical presence. He was vaguely aware that she worked at Bascombe & Cox, and thought that if she was a lawyer, she’d be the center of attention in any courtroom.
“It’s no trouble at all,” she said. The precise words her mother had used minutes before. But just as with her mother, it was a lie. He could see the pain in her eyes, the regret and grief. “I’ve known Mr. Bascombe my entire adult life. I can’t imagine—”
She shook her head and one of her hands fluttered up as though pushing away whatever words would have come next.
“You know Collette Bascombe quite well also.”
Julianna nodded. “Oliver’s very close to his sister. Collette lives in New York now, and when she married they didn’t get to see each other as often as they’d have liked. But, yes, through him I know Collette very well. She’s a friend. I don’t have any siblings, and she always treated me a bit like a little . . .” A wan smile lifted one corner of her mouth. “Like a little sister. So much for that.”
Halliwell kept his expression neutral. “You don’t think you’ll be able to maintain a friendship with Collette, whatever comes of your relationship with her brother?”
“I’d like to think I could. But that’s just wishful thinking. I love her, but she’s still Oliver’s sister. And it’s going to . . .” She frowned, hesitating a moment as she focused on Halliwell. Her lips pressed tightly together, forming a white line, and then she let out a breath that was not quite a sigh. “Well, it’s going to take a while for me to process all of what I feel toward Oliver right now. I can’t imagine that not affecting my relationship with Collette.”
Halliwell slid his hands into his pockets and strode toward the window. He could feel her watching him but he gave her a moment without the pressure of his attention and instead looked out at the snow-covered lawn.
“Is there any word?” Julianna ventured at last, words catching in her throat. “About Collette, I mean.”
The detective shook his head even as he turned. “Nothing yet, I’m afraid. But there was nothing at the house to suggest that Miss Bascombe’s been harmed in any way.”
Anger flared in Julianna Whitney’s eyes. “What, other than her father’s corpse, you mean?”
Then her jaw dropped and she blanched, covering her mouth in obvious surprise that the words had come out. “I’m . . . sorry. I know what you meant. I’m more than a little on edge.”
“I understand. And I wish there was something I could tell you to set your mind at ease. Nothing about this situation is pleasant. Mr. Bascombe’s murder is a horrible thing, but with both of his children missing, we can’t even begin to get a picture of the time that led up to his murder. The only way for us to do that is to find Oliver and Collette. Is there anything you can think of that might help us with that? Anywhere the two of them might go together or anyone they would contact if they wanted to get away for a while?”
Her eyes narrowed in confusion. “I thought that Collette . . . well, that whoever killed Mr. Bascombe—”
“That’s one possibility. We have to look at it from every angle, Miss Whitney.”
Julianna shrugged. “All right. In any case, the answer is no. There isn’t anywhere I can think of. I mean, their lives were spent in that house. I assume the police in New York have checked Collette’s place there.”
“It’s covered. What about Oliver? Any place you think he would run to if he needed to think? Favorite childhood vacation spot? Great-aunt in Montreal? Anything at all?”
Her hand trembled as she reached up to push her hair away from her face. She stared at Halliwell as if he were some hideous new form of life that had just crawled out of the sea. “Run. You said run. Has Oliver got a reason to run? You can’t possibly think . . . oh, Christ, you can’t believe that he would . . .”
She could not even finish the sentence.
Halliwell did not flinch beneath her accusatory stare. “It’s no secret that Oliver didn’t get along well with his father, Miss Whitney. He hasn’t exactly been acting himself lately, has he? You never thought he’d leave you at the altar, did you?”
He regretted the question the instant it left his lips, but could not take it back or temper the edge with which he had spoken. The hurt in her eyes had been deep enough, and now he had added to it.
“No,” she said softly, horror and doubt creeping into her voice and her expression as she entertained the idea for the first time. Halliwell wished he could have spared her that.
“I’m sorry, but as I said, we’ve got to look at every angle.”
His cell phone began to vibrate in his pocket. The ringer was off and the vibrate function always startled him. He flinched and then slid the phone out, flipped it open, and glanced at the incoming number. It was the sheriff’s office.
“Give me a moment, would you?” he asked. Julianna ignored him, staring off into the shadows of the parlor. He punched the TALK button on the phone. “Halliwell.”
“Detective, it’s Nora Costello. The sheriff wanted me to pass something on to you but he didn’t want to do it by radio.”
Halliwell frowned. All of the privacy of this thing was getting more and more under his skin. Max Bascombe was a homicide victim. The case would get investigated. It wasn’t the first time the sheriff’s department had gotten involved in a murder investigation in one of the local towns. But the sheriff was doing everything as quietly as possible, trying his damnedest to keep the Bascombe case out of the newspapers and out of local gossip as well. Halliwell figured it was a useless effort. The case was too big to keep anything private and the sheriff knew that. But the man was beholden to others who were going to try to control the flow of information and he had to play the game.
Ted Halliwell hated games.
“All right, Nora. Let’s have it.”
“Have you ever been up to Cottingsley?”
“Once. A long time ago. Cute little village in Aroostook County.”
“A little girl was murdered there yesterday, right out in public in the middle of an outdoor skating rink. Her . . . it was her eyes, like the Bascombe case.”
Halliwell held his breath. What the hell was this? Cottingsley was a hundred miles from Kitteridge, probably more. What were the odds that two murders could take place on the same day, share that ghastly similarity, and not be related? But that wasn’t just around the corner. If the Cottingsley murder had happened during the day and the killer had then driven south to Kitteridge, it wasn’t likely to be random, him showing up at the Bascombe house. On top of all of the other mysteries, not least of which was how Oliver and Collette had left their home in the first place, here was another.
“The sheriff wants you to go up there right away,” Nora continued.
“Why? What’s the point? Can’t we just have them send down the crime scene report and the autopsy work?”
Nora hesitated. When she spoke again, she had lowered her voice. “We only learned about this killing because of the A.P.B. out on Oliver Bascombe. Last night, just hours after the murder, officers identified him as fitting the description of a stranger lingering at the crime scene. When they went to question him, he ran. That was last night. They’re still searching for him. Apparently, well, he—”
“Disappeared,” Halliwell said, a chill creeping up his back. “Again.”
The more he learned about this case, the less it made sense to him. The only thing he could hold on to now was the absolute certainty that Oliver Bascombe knew more about his father’s murder than the investigating officers did . . . and that maybe that knowledge was firsthand.
He thanked Nora and shut the phone, returning it to his pocket. When he focused on Julianna again he found her studying him with obvious suspicion.
“What was that about?” she asked.
“I’m sorry, Miss Whitney, but it’s an ongoing investigation. When I have anything at all solid involving the whereabouts of either Oliver or Collette Bascombe, I’ll personally call to let you know. Beyond that, there’s not much more I can say. I thank you for your time.”
He started toward the door and then paused. “Oh, and please thank your mother for the tea.”
Julianna smiled. “It’s awful.”
Halliwell gave a gentle nod of agreement. “Well, for the hospitality, then.”
“Detective, I’m sorry, just . . . do you really think that Oliver is responsible for all of this?”
He hesitated a long time before responding.
“I think he has a lot of the pieces missing from this puzzle. Beyond that, I wouldn’t want to speculate.”
* * *
During his first excursion beyond the Veil, Oliver had come to think that time passed more or less in sync on both sides. When they had left the Sandmen’s castle and shifted back to his own world, however, they had gone from day to night. He did not think that more time had gone by in his absence but, rather, that both the days and the nights were longer in the world of myth. They had spent an entire night and most of a morning in Maine, but when they had passed through the Veil once more, the sky was just beginning to lighten.
Dawn in the Two Kingdoms. Or, in this case, in Euphrasia, for once Frost and Kitsune had gotten their bearings they had determined that they were far north of the Sandmen’s castle, well on their way to Perinthia. Based upon Kitsune’s sense of direction, they had struck off on a northeasterly path and within two hours had found themselves back upon the Truce Road at last.
“It may not always be safe to travel,” the winter man had said, “but we ought to keep to it as long as we can, for the going will be easier and, some way, swifter, too.”
Apparently there was magic in the road itself that shortened the journey. For his part, Oliver was dubious. He wanted to find Professor Koenig as quickly as possible, and that meant hurrying to Perinthia. But he did not want to die, and even with the shotgun case slung over his shoulder— thanks to Kitsune’s crafty thievery— he did not feel at all safe out on the road.
As they continued upon their journey, he realized that even more so than time, distance was quite different on either side of the Veil. He had thought that the land here would be exactly as large as all of the public areas of his own world combined, all pushed together in a sort of reverse continental drift. This was not at all the case. Distance was not equivalent.
Or so he learned when they came to the Atlantic Bridge.
They had followed the Truce Road through a dense wood and then up a rise that was part of the foothills of a mountain range to the west. The road turned due east thereafter and ran through a low, green valley where there were farms set at significant distance from one another. Cattle grazed in open fields and Oliver wondered how the farmers determined which animals belonged to which property. As the morning wore on toward midday they sighted several wild horses running along a ridge to the west and Oliver had to pause a moment to watch them run. The sight was among the most beautiful things he had ever seen. He didn’t know a damn thing about horses, but had always admired the animals. Seeing them run free did something wonderful to him inside, but he knew he would never be able to put it into words, so he said nothing to his companions.
