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“Oh, my gosh. I haven’t seen this in ages.” A scrapbook from the construction of the lodge, filled with photos and newspaper clippings. It could be useful to her inventory. She set it aside.
Relieved of the extra weight, the bookcase moved more easily, and a few minutes later she had it in position. Not perfect—daylight leaked in through a narrow gap between door and frame. But it would do for now.
She picked up the top photo in the stack on the table. An eight-by-ten in a gold-toned frame showed Mary McGinty in front of the altar at Sacred Heart Church, the train of her long white dress draped artfully down the steps. She’d been young, only twenty, in 1946 when she married Tom McCaskill, ten years older and probably ten inches taller—what would have been called a fresh-faced girl, with freckles and reddish-brown hair, though that was Sarah’s memory coloring the black-and-white photo. In her arms lay a bouquet of roses and ferns. Sarah had been married in that same church, and her own wedding album held a similar photo, though she’d had no veil or train. She’d loved her dress, creamy white satin with a wide sweetheart neckline, beaded bodice, and flowing skirt. Still in a box in her closet in Seattle.
Next, in a matching frame, was a photo of her great-grandparents, Cornelius and Caroline McCaskill, who’d bought Whitetail Lodge not long after it was built. Caro wore a lovely tea-length dress with a draped neckline. She’d been a handsome woman with full lips and an impressive head of hair. Sarah had always been told she had the McCaskill eyes—kind eyes, people said. This was where they had come from. Though she was not looking at the world kindly these days. Con had been a tall, broad-shouldered man in a dark suit. McCaskill men were tall—her father, Leo, and her brother, Con’s namesake. Noah, too, though he had Jeremy’s features.
“I’ll get it fixed,” she promised. “As soon as I can. But the place needs—”
“Sarah? Where are you?” Her sister’s voice interrupted her. “Oh, my God. What happened?”
She explained. “I’ll clean up in here, then go call Mom. She’s going to be sick about this, but—” Holly chimed in and they repeated Peggy’s mantra. “It could have been worse.”
“Where is the woman, anyway? I thought for sure she’d be here at the crack of dawn, chasing us around with a broom and a vacuum.”
“No clue,” Holly said. “I came up to tell you we’re headed into town. I’ll swing by the house and let Mom know about the damage.”
“Ask her to call the insurance agent, would you? I don’t even know who it is.”
“Sure. After I give Leo the letter from Lucas.”
“Do you think …” She couldn’t finish the question, the thought too awful, but her sister’s face said she knew what Sarah couldn’t say.
“That Janine killed him? No. That they might try to pin it on her? Yes. And it’s our job to be there for her if they do.” Holly turned and bounded down the stairs. Sarah followed slowly, her hand on the railing.
George had seen a white SUV in their driveway, but Sunday, not Monday. Janine drove a white van. George could have mistaken the vehicle, but not the day. If he’d been meeting his granddaughter at the Spruce every Sunday for twenty-five years, then he darned well knew what day it had been.
But Janine had had no reason to come up to Deer Park until she got the letter, on Monday. And she’d still been wearing her work clothes when Sarah found her.
No. Both George and Janine could be telling the truth. George had seen someone else in a white SUV, driving down the road to the lodge. Who?
No matter. It didn’t mean anything.
* * *
By the time she’d changed out of her pajamas and went to find the broom to sweep upstairs, Holly and Janine were in the kitchen, ready to leave.
Nic came in, glancing around for something. “Have you seen my jacket? I’m sure I hung it in the entry last night, but now I can’t find it.”
“Oh, geez. I wore it when I went out on the property. It’s filthy now—sorry. Take mine and I’ll wash yours while you’re in town.”
“Good, thanks. It’s an all-purpose errand trip. Buy a signal booster. Pick up Janine’s phone. Convince the sheriff she had nothing to do with the murder.”
“You could come,” Holly said, the invitation clearly an afterthought. “We could squeeze you into Nic’s car.”
“No. Thanks. I’ve got work to do here,” she replied. “Hey, would you call Connor, too? We’ve got some trees down—nothing urgent, but I doubt there’s a w
orking chain saw out here, if I did dare to use one. But we’ll need to get some tarps up pretty quick.”
“Sure. Surprised he didn’t come out as soon as Mom told him you were here. He’s been worried.”
So they’d been talking about her, the whole family. That was good, she supposed. But the thought of people feeling sorry for her made her twitch.
“With this storm and thousands of acres to manage, he’ll be crazy-busy. This is nothing. Get the roof and balcony covered and we’ll be fine. You go. Don’t worry about me.”
A few minutes later, she was alone. Another thing she hadn’t understood about grief was that one minute she was terrified of being alone, and the very next she wanted nothing more. Depended, in part, on how pushy the other person was. Were they continually asking if she was okay, did she need anything? She was not okay, damn it. She needed Jeremy. And if you couldn’t bring him back, and no one could, then just shut the fuck up.
But she couldn’t say that. Except to Holly, who didn’t hover, but certainly not to her mother. Peggy had suffered her own losses when JP died, but being widowed at seventy was a whole different thing from being widowed at forty-seven. Though seventy was too young, too, wasn’t it?
