The Unkindness of Ravens by M. Hilliard (fastest ebook reader txt) 📕

“You know, someone did think they saw a headless ghost in the main hall.”

Jack’s coffee cup hit the table with a thump.

“Headless?”

“Like Nearly Headless Nick in Harry Potter.”

“Huh. I thought it looked more like Quasimodo.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The Hunchback of Notre Dame. Victor Hugo,” Jack said, “Quasimodo’s his name.”

“Yes, yes, I know Quasimodo, but—”

“You’d better explain, Jack, or she’ll think you’re crazy,” Meadow said.

“There’s not much to tell,” Jack said. “A couple of nights this spring I’ve seen something. Something strange. At first I thought I imagined it, but it kept happening.”

“What kept happening?”

“Well, we’ve had some really slow nights lately, because of the weather. So, I’d close early, turn off the lights, and play some music. Put my feet up and relax with a—a drink,” he said, not meeting my eyes.

“Of course. I like to unwind with a martini myself.”

Meadow looked bemused. I had often suspected the “joint” in the café name had more than one meaning, given the hippie antecedents of the proprietors.

“Anyway,” Jack continued, “a couple of times I saw something go by. It was just a shadowy outline. It looked like a really tall person, but with nothing where the head should be. Just rounded and lumpy on top. That’s why I said Quasimodo. But it moved gracefully, not like a hunchback. Of course, it didn’t glide like a ghost either.”

“When did you see it?” Sadie had seen her ghost twice, the last time on the night Joanna died.

“The last time was about a week or two ago. I can’t remember exactly.”

“But you’d seen it before?”

“More than once. Maybe two or three times. That’s why I finally told Meadow. I was beginning to think I was losing it.”

“I don’t think you’re crazy, but I don’t know what it means, or if it’s connected. Will you call me if you see it again?”

“Sure,” Jack said.

I gave him my number and ordered a big enough lunch to leave leftovers. We talked some more about the murder as I ate. According to Meadow and Jack, everyone who came in had a theory, each more farfetched than the last. I listened to them all, sifting through them for the nuggets of truth that had sparked them. There was still a small group that refused to suspect one of their neighbors of being a killer, and put it down to an accident or a nameless, faceless stranger. None of them mentioned a headless stranger. A subset of this lot was for a new, more centrally located library with up-to-date security. The balance muttered darkly that Anita was behind it all, that she had convinced Joanna to go along with a staged accident to make the case for a new building, and the stunt had gone horribly wrong. According to Meadow, at least one of the conspiracy theorists had flatly stated that Joanna wasn’t supposed to be there after the meeting, that she had changed her schedule, and this supported the put-up job idea. I thought the anti-Anita scenario was way off base, but the bit about the schedule change interested me. Meadow wasn’t sure who said it, but thought it was one of the volunteers working on the sale. I’d have to try to track down the source.

Among those who believed it was murder, the love triangle theory was popular, though no one could agree on the main players. Others were convinced money had to be at the bottom of things. Large life insurance policies were mentioned, but Jack and Meadow figured it was standard speculation. Wills and inheritances were mentioned as well, with a couple of the older village residents exchanging knowing glances as they discussed decades-old rumors of disappearing codicils and family scandals. That had potential, given what I’d overheard between Vince and Millicent, but I’d need more details. Meadow gave me a couple of names. One was a regular library user, so that helped, and Henri and the Very Old Gentlemen might shed some additional light.

There had also been some speculation that Joanna was involved in some kind of story for Albany News that had gotten her in trouble. The fact that she was no longer a reporter didn’t seem to matter. All people knew was that if she worked for the news station she would come into contact with unsavory characters. If you counted Ed Dexter, she had, but I knew that wasn’t what anybody meant.

“Were you here when a little girl drowned in the Ravens Kill?” I asked. “It would have been nearly 35 years ago.”

“That was before we moved to the village, though not long before,” Meadow said. “I remember hearing about it, though. Not in a lot of detail, though it seems like there was something—”

“We were the first long-haired freaky people in town,” Jack said with a smile. “People didn’t exactly confide in us.”

“Do you think it’s important?” asked Meadow.

“I have no idea what’s important. It’s just something someone asked me about. Thanks for all your help.”

Jack got me a bag for my leftovers. I mulled over my theories as I walked to work. I had a few “almost, not quite” scenarios, but not one that hung together in every element. With a few minutes to spare before my shift, I sat on my favorite bench outside the manor. I was immediately joined by one of the resident ravens. He cocked his head and looked at me expectantly.

“No crumbs today,” I said.

He ruffed his feathers, looking like he was shrugging in response to my statement.

“So, who do you think did it?”

He kept a steady gaze on me.

Headless ghosts and hunchbacks. Harassment, addiction. Disappearing wills. Insurance policies. Local Child Drowns in Ravens Kill. “Blackmail by any other name.” Old scandals. “Don’t you think this all looks a bit staged?” A put-up job gone wrong. “I didn’t kill your husband, lady.”

The thoughts swirled around. The word cloud hung there, some phrases large and bold scattered through it. A sense of calm, certainty settled over me as I sorted and parsed, ignoring reason and