She kept on keeping quiet, which left Claire to reflect on how she’d found herself here, miles from home, in a tiny town she’d never heard of till two days ago, comforting a woman she hadn’t met an hour ago. She glanced across the table at Murphy and Eileen and wondered if they were thinking the same thing. Who knew. They were both so different from Claire, it was hard for her to believe sometimes she had anything in common with her sisters, let alone thoughts.
“Sorry,” Cathy repeated, but this time it was clear she meant to go through with the rest of her story. “As I was saying, they caught up with Mark and brought him back for the trial. We figured it’d be an open-and-shut case. That’s sure what it seemed, in the beginning. The DA, they only had what you’d call circumstantial evidence—nothing scientific, exactly. But the youngest brother, Patrick, he testified in court that his brother told him, ‘Pat, I’m going to get that old man, once and for all.’ See, the father and Mark had been butting heads for years, getting involved in nasty fights. ’Course, none of us knew that. Goes to show, you don’t know your own neighbors. Well, it was a real strong case before the defense brought in these so-called experts, talking about fingerprints and DNA. Then they get this girl who claimed to be Mark’s girlfriend—an out-of-towner, some teenager with no parents to speak of—to say he was with her the night of the murders. And God knows why, but that jury? They believed the story. Acquitted the boy, let him go scot-free.”
“No,” Claire said, though she hadn’t meant to speak. She placed a hand on her mouth, shocked as much by her reaction as the verdict.
“Hang on,” said Murphy. “If Mark didn’t do it, who did?”
“That’s the real question.” Cathy pointed at Murphy. “Because wouldn’t you know, the night Mark Enright gets out of jail, he leaves town again. This time for good, along with the girlfriend. And in the morning? Like before. Patrick Enright finds his mother dead at the bottom of the staircase, head bashed in like a cantaloupe.”
Claire felt a retch coming on. She clamped her jaw and tried her best to ride out the nauseous wave. The staircase. Those stairs she’d thought were elegant, the height of class. Now she saw splattered blood on the railing, soaking every inch of the carpet runner.
“Police ruled a suicide this time,” Cathy went on. “Brought on by grief. But others—and I’ll confess myself among them—well, we think a person can get pushed as easily as they can jump. And Mark Enright had a motive. Could’ve even been helped by that girlfriend of his. Not that anyone’s asking me. And I’m not blaming you, of course, Kerry,” she added, nodding toward the sheriff. “Lord knows it was well before your time, and I’ve got nothing against the force.”
Kerry gave a single, silent nod back.
“Now, Cathy,” Mayor Orson called out, “we gotta let those wheels of justice turn. I’m sure the jury heard more than you and I know about the case.”
“Oh, sure, Orson,” Cathy called back. “Everyone’s entitled to their opinion.”
She turned to Claire and, very distinctly, with her back to the mayor, rolled her eyes. Claire wasn’t sure if she should laugh. She was afraid that if she did, she might end up vomiting.
“Well!” bellowed Cathy, slapping her hands on the table. “I’ve used up my smoke break. But now you know why I say murders, girls. And if you intend to stay here till Christmas Day, I recommend you ask other folks about the Enrights. If you’re looking for pizzazz for that pod-thing of yours, there it is.”
“That’s, uh … pizzazz, all right,” Claire managed. “We had no idea the kind of story we’d get out of this visit. Our professor’s going to be … impressed.”
Claire was finding it increasingly difficult to lie. Her mind was fixated on an image: a woman clothed in a blue silk dressing gown, sprawled at the bottom of those stairs at 2270 Laramie. Why had Cathy said cantaloupe? Nothing could wash the bloody image from Claire’s head.
“Whatever happened to the eldest boy?” asked Orson, as Cathy bustled around the counter, reclaiming the coffee pot. “John, wasn’t that his name?”
“Off at college when it happened,” said Cathy, beginning her refill round. “Other side of the country. Never came back, not even for the funerals or trial. Too much