Shadow Dancer (The Shadow Series Book 1) (17 page)

Blake cautiously reached for the key as the bird delicately dropped it into his palm. The dark bird gave Blake a strange glance and flew off into the forest.  Out of the corner of his eye, he could see a dark figure standing in the clearing of the forest, but when he turned around there was no one there.

“Blake!” called a voice from behind him, shocking him nearly out of his skin. Blake could not move, still recovering from his brush with the creepy forest.

“Dude,” said Adam calmly as he put his hand on Blake’s back. “Are you okay?”

Blake shook his head, but all the color had been removed from his face, minus the red scrape that now appeared on the left side of his face from scraping it against a sharp tree branch. Liam helped Blake up from the ground and brushed off his khaki coat.

“DiNolfo is ready for you now.”

* * *

Blake sat in a rickety wooden chair at the end of an isolated hallway, awaiting Sergeant DiNolfo's line of questioning. She did not keep him waiting long, and for that he was grateful; his nerves on edge, like razor blades just below the skin, threatening to push through.

“Blake, my name is Sergeant DiNolfo,” Jenna announced as she held out her hand to shake. Blake shook it politely, keeping his eyes on the floor. The wheels in his head were turning, distracting him from his usual courteous nature. “I just need to ask you some questions.”

Blake nodded his head in understanding.

“When was the last time you saw your sister?”

“Last night, just before bed.”

“What time?”

“I don't know.”

“Estimate.”

“Like 9:30?” guessed Blake.

“What happened last night? Any arguments?”

“Well, yeah, actually. My sister and father were going at it. I overheard her say that he was lying about something. It had to be something big; she doesn't get upset like that often. She's usually pretty quiet. Then when I went to talk to her about it just before bed, she was annoyed and said she didn't want to talk about it, which is really unlike her.”

DiNolfo scribbled in her notepad as Blake spoke, capturing key testimony from the youngest Morrow boy. She flipped back in her notepad to review the notes she wrote after interviewing Adam for the name of the man they had seen in the barn.

“What can you tell me about Bernard Kendricks?”

“He's our English teacher.”

“Who's English teacher?”

“Mine, Tristan’s, Tommy’s, our cousin’s, too. We all had him.”

“What do you think of him?”

“I don't like him.”

“Why is that?”

“He's annoying and overbearing.”

“What else?”

“He was constantly keeping Tristan after class for study sessions.”

“Did she struggle in class?”

“No, she is very smart. Has an A+ average.”

“Why would he keep her then?”

Blake shrugged and told her, “You should ask Tommy his take on that.”

“I'm asking you.”

“She is pretty. He always seemed to stare at her while she was working. Not just glancing. Staring hard, eyeing her up. It made us uncomfortable.”

“Did it make
her
uncomfortable?”

“We never mentioned it to her. He would only stare when she was preoccupied with her work, and he thought everyone else was busy. It’s something worth looking into. He seemed
overly
interested in her.”

“Was he interested in other girls at school?”

“No, just her.”

“Thank you. That is worth looking into. Did you hear any sounds from Tristan's room last night?”

“No. It was very quiet, but with the thunderstorm last night, who knows?”

“I understand you were very close with Tristan. Where do you think she is?”

“She didn't run away if that's what you're asking. She might have been mad at Dad, but she would never leave this place. I think he took her.”

DiNolfo raised an eyebrow as she wrote her notes. “That's enough for now. Thank you.”

Blake watched as Sergeant DiNolfo retreated down the long hallway, heavy-footed and determined. She walked into the living room where
Rutledge was still talking with family members. Bridgette stood next to Rutledge looking beside herself while Jack continued to speak with the officer. Tommy, Liam, and Shane had left earlier in the day to search for Tristan in all different directions.  In the corner Angus and Moira stood amongst their luggage, home from their trip and to a family crisis. “Rutledge! Let's go!” DiNolfo barked, as she tapped on her watch.

“Jack, what I want you to do is continue reaching out to various people in town, friends, asking if they have seen her. We are going to try tracking down Mr. Kendricks, as well as survey the school to see if anyone knows anything. Her room has been partitioned off and is considered a crime scene. No one is allowed to enter. We will be back tomorrow with a team to continue. Meanwhile, if you can gather up a search party...”

Jack nodded in understanding. “We actually started hours ago. Frank, and the boys split up in town, but they haven't found anything yet.”

“We will, Jack,” DiNolfo assured him. “We just have to get the facts first.”

With that, Rutledge and DiNolfo left, slamming the heavy oak door behind them.

* * *

Jenna settled onto her couch with a glass of brandy and Catherine Morrow’s case file, exhausted from the day’s activities. She wanted nothing more than to nod off for a solid eight hours, but she didn’t want to show up in Fox Hollow tomorrow without all of her information sorted out. There was much that had to be done in the morning. There was the matter of the Trafford’s shirt found in the barn. She would send Rutledge over to Trafford’s in the morning. Surely he could handle questioning those guys over there. Somehow, she thought a male officer would be able to get more out of that lot than she ever would. Forensics would need to be called in, too. It would be an early morning. While the statute of limitations had expired on Catherine’s case, she wanted to find out the truth. For one, it could provide closure to her family, and secondly, it could provide clues to Tristan’s own disappearance.

With a deep sigh, she opened the manila folder, determined to get to the bottom of the Morrow cases. On top of the file’s contents sat two pictures of Catherine. The first picture showed a vibrant woman with curly black hair, a flawless complexion, and radiant smile. Catherine looked very happy in this picture. Jenna moved the picture to the side to reveal another picture, Catherine post-mortem. Catherine was lying on the bank of the lake in a white night gown, her hair was wet and matted, her eyes foggy and lifeless. The radiance was gone, her warmth replaced with a terrible coldness. She must have been lying there for a few hours, as frost began to form on her limbs and her lips had turned an unnatural shade of blue. The photograph gave Jenna chills, and she had to turn it over, away from view.
What happened to you, Catherine?

Jenna continued browsing through the file, scanning the original police report. Her body was found on Christmas Day around 8 A.M. by Angus Morrow, her father-in-law. Significant evidence of frostbite was found on the body, but no other signs of physical harm. Blood on her nightgown was not caused by trauma but is a byproduct of delivering a child in the early morning hours. There were interviews with various family members who were able to confirm her whereabouts until 5:00 on Christmas morning. According to her husband, Catherine had given birth to a daughter at around 4:00 A.M. Additionally, she is known to have suffered from moderate depression, and high levels of anxiety. No one ever saw her leave the house - they all assumed she was recovering from giving birth in her bedroom.

Jenna moved the police report to the side to reveal further investigation notes. There was a coroner’s report as well as written logs from interrogations, medical records, even official documents listing Jack Morrow and Bernard Kendricks as key persons of interest. One by one, she moved the papers to the side, on top of the others, until she noticed something that intrigued her. A life insurance policy that was taken out just three weeks before Catherine’s death listing Jack Morrow as the sole beneficiary, and a restraining order against Bernard Kendricks taken out just a week prior to Catherine’s death.
Now this would be worth remembering.

* * *

Adam Morrow slammed a heavy video projector on the coffee table in the den, as his brother hung up a sheet against the wall with a staple gun. Jack, supervising, told Adam in a quiet voice, "Get everyone down here. Aunt Bridgette and Uncle Frank too." The family gathered in the living room, filling up the sofa, love seat, arm chairs and the floor. The Morrows gathered in this fashion every Saturday night for family movie night, when they would watch old family projections on the wall, but tonight would be much different. Jack would be showing them a slideshow that they had never seen before.

Jack spoke, looking at his family with a somber expression, "As you all know, a very integral part of our family is not here tonight. And unfortunately, there is something I need to tell you. I promised Tristan I would. I promised her that I would tell you about your mother.”

Silence fell across the room. Blake gave Adam a prying glance.

“I remember every word Catherine ever spoke to me. Every glance, every touch, every exchange. She transferred to the Steeplechase Academy during our sophomore year from some white-collar private school in Philadelphia. She was polished, demure, and took my breath away. Naturally, she hated my guts. Turns out her high society upbringing also meant she was spoiled and snobbish at times. She spent all of sophomore year ignoring me. Befriending the “in” crowd, which ironically included your favorite English teacher, Bernard Kendricks.”

"Kendricks?!" shrieked Tommy.

"Do you want to hear this or not?"

Silence took over the room.

"You'll soon see that your old English teacher plays a significant role in this story. Anyway, what was I saying?"

"Mother befriended good 'ol Bernie," supplied Liam.

"Ah, right."

Jack
peered down over his glasses at his sons and nephew.

"This conversation does not leave this house. Do you hear me?" They all nodded in unison indicating that they did indeed understand, and kept quiet because they wanted to hear what he was going to say next.

"Bernard Kendricks is an unstable man. He is not to be trusted. You'll soon understand why. So, as I was saying..." Jack began, digging deep into his memory.

Chapter Ten

The Curator’s Daughter

Society Hill - Philadelphia, PA

Westfeld Residence

1964

Catherine’s Point of View

I grew up in the warm nook that is the Philadelphia high society during a period of considerable opulence in the Westfeld household. In 1964, my father,
Todge Westfeld, had risen to the level of Senior Art Curator at the Philadelphia Museum of Modern Arts, and this afforded us a much more lavish lifestyle than we were accustomed to. We left our tiny row house on Bridge Street and moved into our massive town house on Lombard Street. Mother enjoyed calling our new home an urban mansion; the term wasn't incorrect. What row home do you know of that has wings, multiple parlors, private bedroom suites, and a rose garden on the roof? We had stepped out of the mundane and embraced a life of grandeur.

We were never poor, but we certainly weren't hosting debutante balls or spending the holidays in the South of France prior to Father accepting his position as Senior Curator. Mother no longer needed to tend to boring tasks such as helping me with studies or making sure my clothes were ironed; we had staff for that. Lillian the tutor, Reginald the butler, Ragna the maid, Piers the gardener, and Alois the cook all made sure the Westfeld residence ran smoothly, and that meant I saw less and less of my mother. I wasn't necessarily opposed to the idea.

Philomena Sax-Westfeld spent her days entertaining the other ladies of Philadelphia's high society. She frequently had high tea with Eugenie Porter-Kent, the wife of the famous restaurateur Lawrence Kent. She discussed fashion and current events with Amelie Cottilard, wife of the French fashion designer Leland Cottilard. She played bridge with her fellow Daughters of the Revolution society members Lorraine Abbott, spouse of Pennsylvania Senator Warren Abbott, Madeline Prichard, founder of the Prichard Mercy Home for Children, and Rosalie Griffin, wife of the Olympic silver medalist swimmer Carl Griffin. My mother is all about connecting with high-profile and high-power individuals. She believed in the notion that it is not just
what
you know, but
who
you know that matters. When she wasn't socializing, she was primping and polishing my sisters, preparing them for various black-tie social events. Antoinette, my eldest sister, is twenty-two, and Mother is determined to find her a fiancé before summer. Meanwhile, Lydia and Minerva, ages fifteen and seventeen, are being fitted for no less than six debutante balls.