“Thanks, Cas. No one’s in trouble. You’re right—I’m just being nosy.”
He made a shooing gesture. “Then go on—get out of here!”
I drove across the bridge from Pemkowet to East Pemkowet, a distinction that many find confusing for good reason, since the communities are intertwined. In terms of tourism, they’re joined at the hip. In terms of governance, they are actually two separate entities, and there’s a little bit of rivalry on the local level, too. I have fond memories of taking part in the annual Easties vs. Townies battle that goes down every Halloween night, complete with water balloons and eggs.
Once upon a time, East Pemkowet was a little more down-to-earth and homespun than its sister-city across the bridge, but in the past ten years, it had become a haven for upscale dining and boutique shopping. Driving down Main Street, I couldn’t help but notice the improvements, which included some pretty ambitious street- and landscaping. Well, except for Boo Radley’s house.
That’s what we called it in high school, anyway. I don’t know what it was called before To Kill a Mockingbird came out. It was the oldest house on Main Street, a rambling Tudor Revival with crumbling white stucco and dark exterior woodwork, the kind that looked like it was integral to the structure, not just a veneer.
According to local legend, Clancy Brannigan, the last living descendant of Talman Brannigan, owned the place. I’d never seen him, but the cashiers at Tafts Grocery claimed there was a standing order for a weekly delivery dating back decades. No one ever got to go inside the house, though. The bill was paid in advance by a check drawn from a business account and deliveries were left in the shuttered, decrepit wooden gazebo in the front yard. Generations of schoolkids had haunted the place, trying to catch a glimpse of our local Boo Radley, to no avail.
Anyway.
Mr. Leary’s cottage was infinitely more pleasant, a charming little place with a wonderful garden. Late-blooming cosmos and zinnias provided a riot of color, and a line of tall sunflowers nodded alongside a weathered picket fence.
“Daisy Johanssen!” My former teacher hailed me from the screened porch, hoisting a glass as I came up the front path. “If it isn’t my favorite teleological conundrum. Would you care for a glass of iced tea?”
I did a little bit of a double take; first, because I’d never known Mr. Leary to voluntarily partake of nonalcoholic beverages, and second, because he had company. As far as I knew, he was a lifelong bachelor, and I’d always found him to be fairly reclusive outside the classroom even before he retired. But no, there was a woman on the porch with him.
And then I did a triple take, because I knew her. Emma Sudbury. I’d, um, killed her sister.
It’s a long story, but the upshot of it is that Emma Sudbury’s sister, Mary, was a ghoul, cast out from heaven and hell for drowning her infant son and believing it was God’s will. That happened back in the late 1950s. For the next fifty-some years, Emma took care of Mary, growing older and more desperate while Mary stayed ageless and batshit crazy. Right up until the end, at least. At the very end, after doing some pretty terrible things, she had a moment of lucidity and begged me to administer Hel’s justice.
I swallowed hard, my right palm tingling at the memory of dauda-dagr’s hilt clutched hard against it, the shudder of Mary’s final death.
“Come in, come in!” Mr. Leary held the door open for me. “Miss Daisy Johanssen, may I present Miss Emma Sudbury?”
“We’ve met,” I said softly. “Nice to see you again, ma’am. You’re looking well.”
It was true. When I’d first encountered Emma Sudbury, she was haggard and unkempt, worn down by grief and terror. Now her white hair was rinsed and set, and she wore an attractive old-lady pantsuit.
But the shadow of sorrow was still there. It would never leave.
“Thank you, dear,” she said with quiet dignity before turning to Mr. Leary. “Thank you, Michael. I’ve enjoyed our chat, but I should be going.”
I watched him usher her out the door and down the front path, his head with its leonine mane of white hair bent solicitously over hers. The last time I’d seen her, Cody and I had delivered the news of her sister’s death. I hadn’t told her it had been by my own hand, only that her sister Mary was at peace with it. We hadn’t volunteered details