The Gravedigger's Ball (26 page)

“I’m sorry,” the young man said with a nervous laugh. “Sometimes I get a little excited. Where do you want me to start?”

“Start with the cryptogram,” Commissioner Lynch said.

“Sure, no problem. We found the cryptogram in Mrs. Bailey’s ‘My Documents’ folder, along with some other things she’d stored in a subfolder called ‘Poe.’ It was a handwritten document that was scanned and saved as a PDF, and it contained a chart with two sets of symbols representing each letter in the cryptogram’s code. The first set was the alphabet backward, so the letter
a
was represented by the letter
z
and so on. The second set was numbers, so the letter
a
was represented by the number 1 and so on. The cryptogram was pretty simple, really. It alternated between the letters and numbers. The method confused the computers, but anybody who was really into cryptograms should’ve been able to solve it pretty easily.”

“And the solution to the cryptogram was written on that same document?” Mann asked.

“Yes. On the document, right under the cryptogram, was the answer. It said, ‘Start at the evergreen tree.’ Underneath that, someone had written three words, ‘The Gold Bug.’”

Sandy glanced at Mann. “Isn’t that the name of the story the ranger gave you back at the Poe house?”

“Yeah.”

“Was there a map in the story?” the computer tech asked.

“Yeah,” said Mann.

“Well, you might want to take a look at this. It was in the Poe folder on Clarissa’s computer, too.”

He handed them a picture of a map containing what appeared to be an overhead view of Fairgrounds Cemetery, complete with symbols for headstones, monuments, and mausoleums. In the upper-left-hand corner was a picture of a tree. A dotted line extended from the tree and wound around headstones and mausoleums in the graveyard. The line ended almost exactly at the point where Clarissa’s body had been found that morning.

“Maybe this map leads to the secret Poe supposedly hid at the cemetery,” Sandy said.

“But if Clarissa had a map, why would she need Lenore Wilkinson?” Mann asked. “Why would the whole thing about a seer even matter?”

“Maybe she tried to use the map and it didn’t work,” the captain said.

Mann turned to the computer technician. “When were these documents created?”

“The first one was created September fourth at nine
A.M.
The second was created about five minutes later. The properties in both documents list Clarissa Bailey as the author, which means she’s the one who scanned them and saved them as PDFs.”

“But that doesn’t mean she created the documents, right?”

The technician nodded.

“So, in theory, she could’ve gotten these documents from anywhere and scanned them into her computer,” Mann said.

“That’s right.”

“Then we need to figure out who created these documents for Clarissa.”

“Not only that,” Sandy said. “We need to figure out why she scanned them. If these documents were supposed to be the key to this secret and someone gave them to her on paper, she probably wouldn’t have turned them into PDFs unless she intended to pass them on.”

“Did she pass them on?” the commissioner asked the technician.

“Not by e-mail,” the technician said.

“Maybe she got killed before she got the chance,” said the commissioner.

They were quiet for a moment as they contemplated what it would mean if the commissioner was right.

“What else did you find on the computer?” the captain asked.

“E-mails. Lots of them.”

The technician placed three sheets of paper on the captain’s desk and began to explain. “Most of them were to and from Violet Grant and Lily Thompkins. She sent a couple to the cemetery manager, mostly about the Gravedigger’s Ball. And then, of course, there was the e-mail address you asked us to try to trace—the fifth address Clarissa e-mailed with the information about Lenore Wilkinson coming to town.”

“Were you able to find out anything about it?” Mann asked.

“Not based on the e-mail Mrs. Bailey sent, but when the person e-mailed Mrs. Bailey later that day, we were able to trace the IP address of the computer they used.”

“What did the e-mail say?” Mann asked.

“It just said, ‘Thanks.’”

“That’s it? No signature?”

“Nope.”

“So who sent it?” Sandy asked.

“We don’t know. All we know is that the sender e-mailed Clarissa Bailey from a computer at the Free Library’s central branch.”

“So you don’t have any other way of finding out who sent it?”

“Sure,” the technician said. “We could send a warrant to the hosting company asking for the name of the person who registered the address, but it might take a while.”

“Maybe we could see if they have surveillance video of the person who was sitting at the computer when the e-mail was sent,” said Mann.

“They’re both worth a shot,” Commissioner Lynch said. “I’ll get you the warrant. Mann, you get in touch with the Free Library and see if we can get that video.”

“Did the Park Service ever send you the video from the Poe house?” Sandy asked.

“No,” said Mann. “I circled back with them a couple hours ago and they still didn’t have it, but I’ll check with them again.”

“So where does that leave us?” Sandy asked.

“Depends on what else we have,” the commissioner said, as they all looked at the technician expectantly.

“We didn’t really find anything else when we went through her computer, and her husband’s computer didn’t contain much more than porn.”

“What about her cell phone?” the captain asked.

“She got a text message yesterday that might have been significant,” the technician said as he looked through the papers to see if he could find the cell phone records.

“Here it is,” he said. “The bank sent her a text two days ago about check number 1766—a ten-thousand-dollar personal check that someone was trying to cash. Mrs. Bailey called the bank a few minutes later, apparently to okay the transaction.”

“Do we know who the check was made out to?” the captain asked.

“We had to cross-check the bank records on her computer,” the technician said while shuffling through the papers. “But it looks like the check was made out to someone named Sean O’Hanlon.”

“That’s Lenore Wilkinson’s father,” Mann said, sounding perplexed. “Did the check say what the payment was for?”

“In the memo line it just said ‘research.’”

“Get the officers guarding Lenore Wilkinson on the phone,” Commissioner Lynch said. “We need her back down here to answer some questions.”

Mann made the call as the others watched. But as he listened to the response from the other end, his facial expression became apprehensive. Slowly he disconnected the call and looked up at the commissioner.

“They knocked on the bathroom door and she didn’t answer, so they went inside. They don’t know how and they don’t know why, but she’s gone.”

“What do you mean, ‘she’s gone’?” the commissioner asked.

“I mean, she walked away. They did say she left a note, though. It said, ‘Don’t try to find me.’”

*   *   *

Coletti got the call just as they pulled into Dunmore. Mann told him about Lenore, the documents, and the money Clarissa Bailey had paid Lenore’s father.

The old detective turned ashen at the thought of Lenore gone missing, but when he saw the reporter looking at him, he tried to compose his face.

“Everything okay?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he said, knowing he couldn’t tell her everything. “Let’s just go in.”

Coletti parked the car in front of the house where Sean O’Hanlon was staying. As he did so, the pitch-black evening gave way to sleepy streetlights. It was hard to believe that this slice of small-town America was now infamous for being the Angel of Death’s hometown.

Dunmore, after all, was a place where Catholicism flourished and violent crime was rare. Much like its better-known neighbor, Scranton, Dunmore was also a place where family mattered and where neighbors looked out for one another. By default, it was a place of law and order, since it housed the local state police barracks.

But like every small town, Dunmore was a place that held on to its secrets. While everyone within the tiny town’s borders knew of the darkness that existed in his neighbor’s house, nobody told outsiders. Dunmore’s secrets were family business, and if you didn’t live there, you weren’t a part of the family.

That was what made it so odd that Sean O’Hanlon had not only agreed to speak with Kirsten Douglas, but had initiated the conversation. He had something he wanted to say, and he needed to say it in person, not over the phone, because here, speaking face-to-face was worth a two-hour drive.

Coletti and Kirsten got out of the car and walked toward the brick single home that was nestled among bushes and tall oaks. Kirsten looked at the house and then up at the stars that shone like crystals in the still and quiet sky.

The detective approached the front door with mixed emotions. Not just about the fact that Lenore was missing. He was also conflicted about Sean O’Hanlon, the man who’d fathered the two women who’d affected him the most. Coletti wanted to focus on the facts of the current case, but he couldn’t help remembering the emotions from the last one.

They knocked. Sean O’Hanlon cracked the door open and glanced at Kirsten Douglas before turning his penetrating stare on the detective.

“Hi, Mr. O’Hanlon,” Kirsten said with an easy smile. “This is Detective Coletti—the one I told you about.”

O’Hanlon stared at him. “I know Detective Coletti,” he said in a raspy voice. “I talked to him after my Mary died.”

O’Hanlon shuffled backward to open the door. His unkempt blond hair was mostly gray, and his stubble-lined jaws were gaunt. His pale skin was punctuated by dark circles around his bloodshot eyes, and though his face showed hints of the looks he’d passed on to his daughters, he was clearly not the man he used to be.

“Come in,” he said, walking with a pronounced limp as he escorted them into the living room. “Have a seat.”

As they sat down on a couch across from him, Kirsten took note of the way O’Hanlon’s flannel shirt hung limp from his shoulders, as if it were made for a much larger man. Coletti saw it, too, and he also saw the dozens of pill bottles on the end table next to his chair.

The walls were filled with photos of a family that had long since left Dunmore for greener pastures. A black and white wedding picture was there, fading badly after almost fifty years. The pictures of their six children were there, too. But even now, nearly thirty years after the divorce, there were no childhood pictures of Sean O’Hanlon’s seventh child, Lenore. He still couldn’t bring himself to put his illegitimate daughter’s photo on the wall.

“I guess you’re wondering why I called you,” O’Hanlon said to Kirsten.

“Yes, I am,” she said, taking out her notebook. “I’m especially curious about why you wanted me to come all the way out here to speak to you in person.”

“Well, as you can see, I’m not in the best of health,” he said with a cough. “The cancer’s got me pretty good, so I don’t get out much anymore, and with no one here to look after the old man, it’s best that I do my talking face-to-face.”

“I guess that’s why you didn’t answer the door when we sent the state police to knock,” Coletti said.

“You sent them to the wrong door. This is my aunt’s old house. I’ve been staying here for about a month because it’s easier to get around with everything on one floor. All I had to move over here were my pills and my pictures.”

“We called you, too, Mr. O’Hanlon,” Coletti said. “In fact we called every number for every O’Hanlon in Dunmore, and you never answered the phone.”

“Don’t take it personal,” O’Hanlon said. “I only wanted to talk to Kirsten. But when she told me you were coming, I thought it was for the best, since this Gravedigger thing seems to be centered on my daughter.”

“Why would you think it was about her?” Coletti asked. “We never said that publicly.”

“You didn’t have to. Clarissa Bailey said it when she came to see me last week. She was asking all kinds of questions about Lenore, and I told her I couldn’t answer them.”

“Why couldn’t you?” Kirsten asked.

“Because I didn’t trust her,” O’Hanlon said. “The things she was asking seemed odd. She wanted to know if Lenore had told me anything about Fairgrounds Cemetery, or if I’d ever heard Lenore mention some guy named Irving Workman. She wanted to know if Lenore had ever mentioned meeting her. All of it made me feel uneasy.”

“But that’s not what you called me to say,” Kirsten said. “There’s more to it than that, isn’t there?”

“Yes,” O’Hanlon said, taking a deep, ragged breath as he looked away from them and into the distance.

“So tell us why you called,” Kirsten said gently.

He looked at them with a serious expression. “I called because Clarissa Bailey paid me ten thousand dollars to forget she’d ever been here. I was willing to keep my mouth shut until I turned on the news and saw Clarissa dead in the same cemetery she asked me about, and saw that my daughter was with her.”

Coletti was getting fed up with O’Hanlon’s self-righteous tone, so he did what he did best in interrogations. He went on the attack.

“So, let me guess,” Coletti said cynically. “You’re not speaking up because you want to come clean. You’re speaking up because that ten thousand dollars connects you to a woman who was murdered.”

“It has nothing to do with that,” O’Hanlon said, his tone edgy but calm.

“Then why speak up?”

“Because I never spoke up about Mary.”

“Sure you did,” Coletti said with a cynical smile. “You trashed her after she was dead.”

“And that was wrong,” O’Hanlon said firmly. “I should’ve spoken about her when she was alive. Fact is, I knew the types of problems she had, and I never said anything to anyone. I kept my mouth shut, and all those people died because of it.”

“Are you saying Lenore has the same types of problems?” Kirsten asked.

Coletti scoffed. “How could he say that? How could he say
anything
? He doesn’t even know Lenore.”

Kirsten looked confused. Coletti looked satisfied. He believed the emotion he’d conjured up might make O’Hanlon talk. When the old man’s eyes filled up with pain and he opened his mouth to speak, Coletti knew his gamble was about to pay off.