“Not you, Jane,” said Angela. “You stay.”
“But you just said—”
“I want the men to leave. They’re the ones giving me this headache. I want you to stay, so we can talk.”
“Take care of this, Janie,” said Frankie, and she couldn’t miss the threatening note in his voice. “Remember, we’re a family. That doesn’t change.”
Sometimes to my regret, she thought as the men left the kitchen, trailing a cloud of hostility so thick she could almost smell it. She didn’t dare say a word, didn’t move a muscle, until she heard the front door shut, then the sound of three car engines simultaneously revving up. Sighing with relief, she slid the block of kitchen knives back to its usual space on the counter and looked at her mother. Now, this was a strange turn of events. Frankie was the child Angela always seemed proudest of, her Marine Corps son who could do no wrong, even while he was tormenting his siblings.
But today Angela hadn’t asked for Frankie, she’d asked for Jane, and now that they were alone together Jane took the time to study her mother. Angela’s face was still flushed from her outburst, and with that color in her cheeks, the fire in her eyes, she didn’t look like any man’s property. She looked like a woman who should be clutching a spear and a battleax, steam hissing from her nostrils. But as they heard the three cars drive away, that warrior seemed to wilt, leaving only a weary middle-aged woman who slumped into her chair and buried her head in her hands.
“Mom?” said Jane.
“All I wanted was another chance at love. Another chance to feel alive again.”
“What do you mean, alive? You didn’t feel that way?”
“I felt invisible, that’s what I felt. Every night, putting dinner in front of your father. Watching him suck it down without a single compliment. I thought that’s how it’s supposed to be when you’re married for thirty-five years. How was I supposed to know things could be different? I figured that was that. My kids are grown, I have a house with a nice backyard. Who am I to complain?”
“I never knew you were unhappy, Mom.”
“I wasn’t. I was just …” Angela shrugged. “Here. Breathing. You, you’re still a newlywed. You and Gabriel, you probably don’t know what I’m talking about, and I hope you never do. It’s a terrible feeling, to think the best years of your life are over. He made me feel that way.”
“But you were so upset when he left.”
“Of course I was upset! He left me for another woman!”
“So … you didn’t want him. But you didn’t want her to get him, either.”
“Why’s that so hard to understand?”
Jane shrugged. “I guess I get it.”
“And she’s the one who ended up being sorry. The bimbo.” Angela laughed, a loud, cynical cackle.
“I think they’re both sorry. That’s why Dad wants to come home. I’m guessing it’s a little late for that?”
Angela’s lip trembled, and she looked down at the table where her hands rested. Decades of cooking, of burns from hot grease and nicks from kitchen knives, had left battle scars on those hands. “I don’t know,” she murmured.
“You just told me how unhappy you were.”
“I was. Then Vince came along, and I felt like a new woman. A young woman. We did crazy things together, things I never dreamed I’d do, like shooting a gun. And skinny-dipping.”
“TMI, Mom.” Way too much information.
“He takes me dancing, Janie. Do you remember the last time your father took me dancing?”
“No.”
“Neither do I. That’s the point.”
“Okay.” Jane sighed. “Then we’ll deal with this. It’s your decision, and whatever it is, I’ll back you up.” Even if it meant wearing a pink clown dress to the wedding.
“That’s just it, Janie. I can’t decide.”
“You just told me how happy Vince makes you.”
“But Frankie said the magic word. Family.” Angela looked up with tormented eyes. “That means something. All those years together. Having you and your brothers. Your father and I, we have a history, and that’s something I can’t just walk away from.”
“So history is more important than what makes you happy?”
“He’s your father, Jane. Does that mean so little to you?”
Jane gave a confused shake of the head. “This has nothing to do with me. It’s about you and what you want.”
“What if what I want makes me feel guilty? What if I marry Vince and spend the rest of my life regretting that I didn’t give our family a second chance? Frankie, for one, will never forgive me. And then there’s Father Flanagan and everyone at church. And the neighbors …”
“Forget the neighbors.” They’re a lost cause.
“So you see, there’s a lot to consider here. It was so much easier when I was the wronged woman, and everyone was saying You go, girl! Now it’s all flipped around and I’m the one breaking up the family. You know how hard that is for me? Being the scarlet woman?”
Better scarlet, thought Jane, than depressed and gray. She reached across the table to touch her mother’s arm. “You deserve to be happy, that’s all I can say. Don’t let Father Flanagan or Mrs. Kaminsky or Frankie talk you into doing anything you don’t want to do.”
“I wish I could be like you, so sure of yourself. I look at you and I think, how did I raise such a strong daughter? Someone who makes breakfast, feeds her baby, and then takes down perps?”
“I’m strong because you made me that way, Ma.”
Angela laughed. Ran a hand across her eyes. “Yeah, right. Look at me, a babbling mess. Torn between my lover and my family.”
“This member of the family wants you to stop worrying about us.”
“Impossible. When they say your family is flesh and blood, that’s exactly what it means. If I lose Frankie because of this, it’ll be like cutting off my own arm. When you lose your family, you lose everything.”
Those words echoed in Jane’s head as she drove home that evening. Her mother was right: If you lost your family, you lost everything. She’d seen what happened to people who lost husbands or wives or children to murder. She’d seen how grief shriveled lives, how faces aged overnight. As hard as she might try to offer them comfort, to promise them closure through justice, she did not really know, or want to know, the depths of their suffering. Only another victim would truly understand.
Which was why a school like Evensong existed. It was a place for the wounded to heal, among those who understood.
She’d spoken with Maura that morning, but had not updated her about Zapata’s fate. With their prime suspect dead, and Teddy presumably no longer in danger, they had to decide whether it might be time to bring him back to Boston. She pulled into her apartment parking lot and was about to call Maura’s cell phone when she remembered there was no reception at Evensong. Scrolling down her call log, she found the landline number that Maura had last called from, and dialed it.
Six rings later, a tremulous voice answered: “Evensong.”
“Dr. Welliver, is that you? It’s Detective Rizzoli.” She waited for an answer. “Hello, are you there?”
“Yes. Yes.” A startled laugh. “Oh my God, they’re so beautiful!”
“What’s beautiful?”
“I’ve never seen birds like those. And the sky, such strange colors …”
“Um, Dr. Welliver? May I speak to Dr. Isles?”
“I don’t know where she is.”
“Could you ask her to call me back? You’ll be seeing her at dinner, right?”
“I’m not going. Everything tastes funny today. Oh! Oh!” Welliver gave a squeal of delight. “If you could just see these birds! They’re so close, I could touch them!”
Jane heard her set down the receiver. Heard footsteps walking away.
“Dr. Welliver? Hello?”
There was no answer.
Jane frowned as she disconnected, wondering what species of bird could have so enchanted the woman. S
he had a sudden vision of pterodactyls swooping in over the Maine woods.
In the world that was Evensong, anything seemed possible.
CHICKEN KILLER.
Though no one said it to her face, Claire knew what they were whispering as they leaned their heads together and shot glances at her from the other dining tables. She’s the one. Everyone knew that Claire had tried to kick Herman a few days ago, outside the stables. Which made her the chief suspect. In the court of gossip, she’d already been tried and convicted.
She speared a brussels sprout and it tasted as bitter as her resentment, but she ate it anyway, chewing mechanically as she tried to ignore the whispers, the stares. As always, Briana was the ringleader, backed up by her princesses. The only one who regarded Claire with any obvious sympathy was Bear the dog, who rose from his usual place at Julian’s feet and trotted over to her. She slipped him a morsel of meat under the table and blinked away tears when he gave her a grateful lick on the hand. Dogs were so much kinder than humans. They accepted you just the way you were. She reached down and buried her hand in Bear’s thick fur. At least he would always be her friend.
“Can I sit at your table?”
She looked up to see Teddy holding his dinner tray. “Be my guest. But you know what’ll happen if you do.”
“What?”
“You’ll never be one of the cool kids.”
“Never was anyway.” He sat down, and she looked at his meal of boiled potatoes, brussels sprouts, and lima beans.
“What are you, a vegetarian?”
“I’m allergic.”
“To what?”
“Fish. Shrimp. Eggs.” He used his fingers to count down his list of allergies. “Wheat. Peanuts. Tomatoes. And maybe, but I’m not sure, strawberries.”
“Geez, how do you not starve to death?”
“I’m as carnivorous as you are.”
She looked at his pale face, his matchstick arms, and thought: You are the least carnivorous-looking boy I’ve ever met.
“I like meat. Yesterday, I ate the chicken.” He paused, and his cheeks suddenly suffused with pink. “Sorry,” he murmured.
“I didn’t kill Herman. No matter what they’re all saying about me.”
“They’re not all saying that.”
She slapped her fork on the table. “I’m not stupid, Teddy.”
“Will believes you. And Julian says a good investigator always avoids snap judgments.”
She glanced at the other table and caught Briana’s sneer. “Bet she’s not defending me.”
“Is it because of Julian?”
She looked at Teddy. “What?”
“Is that why you and Briana hate each other? Because you both like Julian?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Briana says you’ve got a crush on him.” Teddy looked at Bear, who wagged his tail, hoping for another morsel of food. “And that’s why you’re always fussing over his dog, to make Julian like you.”
Was that what everyone thought? She gave Bear a sudden shove and snapped, “Stop bothering me, stupid dog.”
The whole dining room heard it and turned to look at her as she stood up.
“Why are you leaving?” said Teddy.
She didn’t answer. Just walked out of the dining hall, out of the building.
Outside it was not yet dark, but another lingering summer twilight. The swallows were whirling and looping in the sky. She walked the stone path around the building, halfheartedly scanning the shadows for the telltale flashes of fireflies. The crickets were chirping so loudly that at first she did not hear the clatter overhead. Then something tumbled down and thudded right at her feet. A chunk of slate.
That could have hit me!
She looked up and saw a figure perched on the edge of the roof. Silhouetted against the night sky, arms spread wide like wings, it seemed poised to take flight.
No, she wanted to scream, but nothing came out of her throat. No.
The figure leaped. Against the darkening sky, the swallows continued to circle and soar, but the body plummeted straight down, a doomed bird stripped of its wings.
When Claire opened her eyes again, she saw the black pool spreading on the path, widening like a corona around Dr. Anna Welliver’s shattered skull.
The chief medical examiner in the state of Maine was Dr. Daljeet Singh, whom Maura had met years earlier at a forensic pathology conference. At every conference since then, they’d made it a tradition to meet for dinner, where they’d discuss odd cases and share photos of vacations and family. But it was not Daljeet who emerged from the white SUV with the ME placard; instead a young woman stepped out, dressed in boots, cargo pants, and a fleece jacket, as if she’d come straight from a hiking trail. She strode past the Maine State Police vehicles with the confident gait of someone who knew her way around a death scene, and walked straight toward Maura.
“I’m Dr. Emma Owen. And you’re Dr. Isles, right?”
“Good guess,” Maura said as they automatically shook hands, although it felt strange to do so with another woman. Especially a woman who looked scarcely old enough to have finished college, much less a pathology fellowship.
“Not a guess, really. I saw your photo in that article you wrote last year in Journal of Forensic Pathology. Daljeet talks about you all the time, so I feel like I already know you.”
“How is Daljeet?”
“He’s in Alaska this week, on vacation. Otherwise he’d be here himself.”
Maura said, with an ironic laugh, “And this was supposed to be my vacation.”
“That’s got to suck. Come to Maine and the dead bodies follow you.” Dr. Owen pulled shoe covers out of her pocket and, with the grace of a dancer, easily slipped them on while balancing on one leg, then the other. Like so many young female physicians now transforming the face of the medical profession, Dr. Owen seemed smart, athletic, and sure of herself. “Detective Holland already briefed me over the phone. Did you see this coming? Notice any signs of suicidal ideation, depression?”
“No. I’m as shocked as everyone else here. Dr. Welliver seemed perfectly fine to me. The only thing different today is that she didn’t come down to dinner.”
“And the last time you saw her?”
“At lunchtime. I believe she had her last student appointment of the day at one o’clock. No one saw her after that. Until she jumped.”
“Do you have any theories? Any idea why she’d do this?”
“Absolutely none. We’re all baffled.”
“Well,” the woman said with a sigh, “if an expert like Dr. Isles is in the dark, then we’ve really got a mystery.” She pulled on a pair of latex gloves. “Detective Holland told me there was a witness.”
“One of the students saw it happen.”
“Oh God. That’ll give the kid nightmares.”
As if Claire Ward didn’t already have her share of them, thought Maura.
Dr. Owen looked up at the building, the windows lit up against the night sky. “Wow. I’ve never been out here before. I didn’t even know this school existed. It looks like a castle.”
“Built in the nineteenth century as a railroad baron’s estate. Judging by the Gothic architecture, I think he fancied himself as royalty.”
“Do you know where she jumped from?”
“The roof walk. It leads off the turret, where her office is located.”
Dr. Owen stared up at the turret, where Welliver’s office lights were still shining. “That looks like it’s about seventy feet, maybe even higher. What do you think, Dr. Isles?”
“I’d agree.”
As they followed the path around the side of the building, Maura wondered when she’d assumed the role of Senior Authority, a status made apparent whenever the young woman addressed her as Dr. Isles. Up ahead were the flashlight beams of the two Maine State Police detectives. The body lying at their feet was covered with a plastic sheet.
“Evening, gentlemen,” said Dr. Owen.
> “Ain’t it always the shrinks who do this sort of thing?” one of the detectives said.
“She was a shrink?”
“Dr. Welliver was the school psychologist,” said Maura.
The detective grunted. “As I was saying. I guess there’s a reason they choose the field.”
As Dr. Owen lifted up the sheet, both cops aimed their flashlights to illuminate the body. Anna Welliver lay on her back, face exposed to the glare, her hair splayed about her head like a wiry gray nest. Maura glanced up at the third-floor dormitory windows and saw the silhouettes of students staring down at a sight that children should never have to see.
“Dr. Isles?” Dr. Owen offered Maura a pair of gloves. “If you’d like to join me.”
It was an invitation Maura didn’t particularly welcome, but she pulled on the gloves and crouched down beside her younger colleague. Together they palpated the skull, examined the limbs, tallied up the obvious fractures.
“All we want to know is: accident or suicide?” said one of the detectives.
“You’ve already ruled out homicide, have you?” said Dr. Owen.
He nodded. “We talked to the witness. Girl named Claire Ward, age thirteen. She was outside, standing right here when it happened, and she didn’t see anyone else on the roof but the victim. Said the woman spread her arms and took a dive.” He pointed up toward the brightly lit turret. “The door leading from her office was wide open, and we saw no signs of a struggle. She stepped out onto the roof walk, climbed over the railing, and jumped.”
“Why?”
The detective shrugged. “That I’ll leave to the shrinks. The ones who haven’t jumped.”
Dr. Owen quickly rose back to her feet, but Maura felt her own age as she stood up more slowly, her right knee stiff from too many summers of gardening, from four decades of inevitable wear and tear on tendons and cartilage. It was yet another creaky reminder that a new generation always stood waiting in the wings.
“So, based on what the witness told you,” said Dr. Owen, “this doesn’t sound like an accidental death.”
“Unless she accidentally climbed over the railing and accidentally flung herself off the roof.”