of what looked like a supermarket. He had a hand up in the air and was half turned away from the camera.
None of the other July newspapers yielded anything interesting, but August was a different story.
The weekend of the ninth, there had been another burglary. This time, it was at Upper Pastures, “the home of Jack Morgan, also of Byzantium.” The Morgans, the article noted, were summer residents of Byzantium and had already gone back to their primary residence in New York.
That was Willow’s uncle and aunt, who spent summers in the colony. The burglary had been discovered by Alan Hancek, a caretaker, when he entered the house to adjust the thermostat. The items taken ranged from stereo equipment to a vase to clothes to “a few pieces of original artwork and a small bust by Mr. Morgan’s father, the Byzantium sculptor Bryn Davies Morgan.”
Once again, police sources had apparently told the paper that Carl Thompson was under investigation for the crime.
She went on with the papers.
During the last week of November, the day after Thanksgiving, there had been a burglary at the home of Dennis Parsons. The items stolen were essentially the same as before, including some paintings and small sculptures by Morgan and, once again, police had questioned Carl, but hadn’t made any arrests.
November didn’t offer up any more incidents, though during the first week of December, shortly before she and Toby had arrived, she found an account of the burglary at the Rapaccis’ house. Again, the stolen items had been small, decorative pieces, a few paintings.
And that was it. There didn’t seem to be any connection with Mary, though it was hard to tell from the newspaper accounts what had been taken.
She thought for a moment. The items seemed completely random. Could the burglar be mentally ill? She hadn’t considered the possibility before that it was someone who was driven to steal and then had to murder so he or she wouldn’t be found out.
She hurried up to the reference section and pulled down Taber’s Cyclopedic Medical Dictionary and went to the Ks.
“Kleptomania—Impulsive stealing, the motive not being in the intrinsic value of the article to the individual. In almost all cases, the individual has enough money to pay for the stolen goods. The stealing is done without prior planning and without the assistance of others. There is increased tension prior to the theft and a sense of gratification while committing the act.”
Oh well. It had been a long shot. The burglaries were obviously well planned. The burglar would have to know what was in the houses, then find out when the occupants would be gone. She discounted the notion of her crazed kleptomaniac, robbing houses for some dark gratification, and went back to her idea that the burglaries had something to do with Mary’s murder.
But what exactly it was, she couldn’t begin to imagine.
THEY SPENT THE rest of the day in front of the fire at Birch Lane, Toby suggesting intermittent games of Scrabble that went on and on because no one’s mind was on the game. Ian had asked her once if she was all right, but mostly left her alone, and Gwinny sat behind Sweeney on the floor and braided her hair. It would have been a pleasant day if they didn’t kept remembering that Sabina was dead.
Sweeney was so tired she thought she’d collapse into unconsciousness as soon as she got into bed that night, but instead she lay there, her heart pounding, the events of the day flooding back along with the sounds of the noisy old house, the mechanical whirrings and hummings and the sounds of old wood settling at night. She fell asleep once, but awoke again when the digital clock on her bedside table read 3 A.M., and knowing there was no way she was going to rest, she decided to go downstairs and try to read. She put on a sweater over her pajamas and found her notes and the copies she’d made of Myra Benton’s diary pages.
The dogs started as she came down the stairs wrapped in the comforter from her bed, then quieted when they saw who it was. She switched on a table lamp in the living room and wandered around looking at the Wentworths’ art and photographs. On a table behind the couch was a group of black-and-white baby pictures. She picked out the twins, sitting on a beach blanket, one smiling and one scowling. On the walls were paintings by Gilmartin and a