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

“The newspaper articles might have something.”

“Maybe. Call me as soon as you get them. I’m going to have another go at Agnes Jenner about last night.”

“Did she see anything?”

“She made a 911 call right around the time of the accident. Said a woman walked into the fog and a fox ran out, and kept going on about fins and metal teeth. She made no sense but kept saying someone was hurt, so the ambulance was dispatched before I called it in. She was incoherent last night, but I’ll talk to her now. With any luck she’s still sober.”

“She was right about the fox,” I said, and told Jennie about my encounter.

Jennie sighed. “All right. I’ll see what she says today. Maybe she saw a headless ghost, too.”

She waited until I was in the door and took off. I had to give her credit. She was hanging in there with the crazier stuff far better than I could have hoped. Most of the village, it seemed, was okay with crazy, at least those that used the library. Something in the water? Or just the atmosphere of the manor?

“She is too fond of books,” I quoted, “and it has turned her brain.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

The first hour of my reference shift was spent dealing with concerned co-workers. Helene offered to take over at the desk, but I told her I needed the distraction. I also needed to pounce on the interlibrary loans as soon as they arrived. Promising to spell me when I needed a break, Helene drifted around the reading room, tidying and filling in displays. She looked as tired and anxious as I felt. Even the unflappable Mary Alice was showing signs of strain. It was a slow afternoon, and we busied ourselves with mindless tasks, glad to feel we were accomplishing something. It should have been routine, but I was not the only one who jumped at every noise, keeping a closer eye on the place than usual. I was glad to see one of O’Donnell’s plants. Jennie had admitted there were officers on loan keeping an eye on things, though she refused to confirm my guesses. A miscommunication had resulted in my being left alone the night before. She promised it wouldn’t happen again.

I was replaying my conversation with Felicity, thinking there was something I missed, when the bins full of materials our patrons had requested from other libraries arrived. I didn’t want to tip my hand to their importance by diving into the pile, so I waited. Mary Alice worked quickly, and I was rewarded in short order.

“Package for you, Greer,” Mary Alice called. I put the recommendation cards I was sorting back in their box and went to Circ. There it was, the familiar state library stamp in the corner of the envelope. I tucked it under my arm, told Helene I’d like to take my break, and headed to the office.

I slid the contents of the envelope onto my desk. Clipped to a sheaf of blurry photocopies was a note. Couldn’t get them all and the quality is questionable, but I did my best. Cheers!

I flipped through the stack, starting with anything related to Carol Douglas. Most told me no more than I already knew, but one of the Albany papers had done a longer article, complete with a photo of the little girl and a shot of the Ravens Kill right below the bridge. I looked at the smiling face and thought of Joanna’s girls, and my own nieces. So young. So awful, as Felicity said. According to the article, there had been two witnesses to her death—Matthew Prentiss and Vincent Goodhue. Carol Douglas often trailed around after her brother and his friends, wanting to be included in their games. The two boys had been playing in the woods. No one was sure how Carol had ended up in the water, but they had heard her call out and gone to investigate. Matthew, older and a stronger swimmer, had gone in after her while Vince ran for help. By the time help arrived, Matthew was partway to shore, clinging to rocks and half-submerged branches, and Carol had been swept downstream. Her body was found later that day.

They found her there, in the water.

Felicity’s words came back to me. I thought she meant Matthew and Vince found the body, but they had found Carol alive and in trouble. I looked at the blurry photo, and pictured the Raven’s Kill, the water high and moving fast from snow melt, as it was this spring. Hypothermia or drowning, it didn’t matter. A small child would not last long in the icy current.

I shivered and went back to the article.

There was little else of note, but it did name the local police officers involved. One name jumped out. I was pretty sure Salvatore Cosmopoulos was Pete’s grandfather. If so, Jennie should talk to him. I made a note and began reading about the second death, the older woman found dead of exposure on the banks of the Raven’s Kill.

These articles were all brief, but those that moved beyond “breaking news” identified her. Marjorie Douglas was in her late seventies and suffering from dementia. She had started to wander in the months before her death, and had apparently let herself out of the house she shared with her son and his family after everyone else was asleep. She was predeceased by her first and second husbands and her daughter Carol, and survived by her son, Matthew Prentiss.

Dementia took many forms. How far gone was she? Still mobile, and with some motor skills, or she could not have gotten out of the house undetected. What did that correspond to mentally? Was there any way to tell for sure? All I knew was that it was a cruel and unpredictable illness. Unpredictable. Joanna’s notes said “reno—locks.” How secure was the house, and what could Marjorie Douglas still reason through on her own? I