Judgment of the Grave (24 page)

Quinn was about to follow up on that when an older man came out of the back of the building. He looked so much like an older version of Bruce Whiting that Quinn knew this had to be George Whiting.

“Bruce?” he asked, looking from Quinn to his son.

“It’s okay, Dad.” He said to Quinn, “This is my father, George Whiting.”

“Tim Quinn. I’m a police officer from Cambridge.” Quinn stood up and shook the man’s hand. He was sure he saw something there, a flash of nervousness or fear.

“What’s he doing here?” George Whiting asked.

“I need to know where you were on Sunday, October third, Mr. Whiting.”

“Why are you asking me this?”

“Because some local kids found Kenneth Churchill’s body this morning. Not far from your house. And we’re asking anybody who had any connection to him about what they were doing that weekend, in case they saw something that might help with the investigation.”

“You found…Where?” Bruce Whiting seemed angry somehow, though Quinn would be damned if he hadn’t been surprised too.

“At Fairfield Farms.”

“Does Cecily know yet?”

“No. I’m going to tell her as soon as I leave here. Sunday the third?”

George Whiting had been listening to them and now he said, “Kenneth? Kenneth is dead?”

“Yes. I’m sorry.”

Bruce Whiting had gotten up and gone over to a little calendar hanging on the wall. “The third? I think I came into the office that morning and then I spent the rest of the day with my family. My wife can tell you when I got home. She has a good mind for numbers.”

“Was anybody else here on Sunday morning? Were you, Mr. Whiting?” Quinn looked up at the older man, who was staring at him with a look of fear on his face.

Bruce Whiting prompted him. “That was the weekend of the encampment, Dad. You were here in the morning and then you went back up there in the afternoon. Right?”

“Yes, yes,” George Whiting said. “That’s right.” But he didn’t sound convinced.

Quinn studied him. “Are you sure, Mr. Whiting? We’ll need to check on it.”

George Whiting nodded. “Yes, that’s right. I was here and then I went up to the encampment.”

Quinn stood up. He wanted to talk with George Whiting again. He’d had the sense his son had been covering for him. “Okay. Thank you,” he told them. “We’ll be in touch.”

Bruce Whiting walked him outside. “Listen,” he said, shaking Quinn’s hand. “When you tell Cecily, do it…I don’t know, gently,” he said. “She’s sensitive. She’s going through a lot right now.”

Quinn watched his face. He hadn’t been sleeping. Quinn knew the signs. Bruce Whiting’s eyes were shot through with red veins and his skin had a gray, washed-out pallor. He seemed about to say something and then knotted his hands together in front of him.

“Are you okay, Mr. Whiting?”

Whiting looked up quickly. “Yes, I’m fine. I’m just…with my son being sick, I haven’t been sleeping.”

Across the street, Quinn saw a redheaded woman walking out of a bagel shop. She looked just like Sweeney and he raised a hand to wave before he realized it wasn’t her, just someone with the same curly scarlet hair. It gave him an idea. Chris Wright thought he had seen Kenneth Churchill across the field at the reenactment, but what if it hadn’t been Kenneth Churchill at all?

“I’m sorry,” Quinn said simply. “I guess that’s it, but if you think of anything that might help us, please let us know.” Bruce Whiting looked sad for a minute, and on impulse, Quinn said, “What did you mean when you said that it made sense Cecily would choose a married man?”

He looked back toward the building. They could both see George Whiting watching them out the window. “Well, it was like she was getting back at me, wasn’t it? You don’t have to be fucking Freud to figure that out.”

Quinn drove up the Whitings’ driveway, past George and Lillian Whiting’s house and back to the log cabin where Bruce and Lauren Whiting lived. He’d called ahead, so he knew that Lauren Whiting was there.

He knocked and she answered the door in a pink sweatsuit and showed him into a kitchen painted with blueberries. There was a nice warm feeling about the room, kids’ drawings on the refrigerator, a big bowl of fruit on the counter, and Quinn found that he wanted to stay there. It was the way he always wanted his house to feel, the way it felt once every six months when he cleaned up and remembered to go shopping and built a fire in the fireplace and Megan was dry and happy. It usually lasted for about an hour.

He accepted her offer of a cup of coffee, hoping to stamp out the last vestiges of his hangover from the night before, and they sat down at the kitchen table.

“Did your husband tell you that we found Kenneth Churchill’s body?”

“Yes, of course. He called to tell me that you were down at the showroom and that you talked to him and George.” Damn. Quinn had been hoping to get to her before she talked to her husband. “It’s terrible. I feel really badly for his wife and son. And, of course, for Cecily.”

“Can you tell me what you and your family were doing the weekend of October second and third?”

“Is that when you think he was killed? Let me check.” She strode over to the kitchen and took down a calendar magneted to the refrigerator. It had pictures of babies sitting in flowerpots on it.

“We had Pres that weekend. Oh, that was the picnic. Let’s see, we had this church picnic on Saturday. Pres came with us. We came home later that afternoon and I think Bruce went over to the showroom and worked for a while. Then we all watched a movie and had dinner and went to bed.”

“What about Sunday morning?”

“Pres went home early because Cecily had something she wanted him to do. I don’t remember what it was. She sometimes makes things up so that we can’t have him the whole weekend. She called Saturday night and said she needed him to come home. So Bruce took him home and then went to the showroom and then came back here.”

“What time was he back here?”

“Oh, I’d say around eleven or twelve.”

“And you were here with your children all morning?”

“Yes, well, not with the children, actually. They were up with Lillian.”

“Okay.” He took a long sip of his coffee, then looked down at his notebook, trying to figure out what to ask her next.

But she beat him to it. “I just want to say that if you think Bruce had anything to do with it, you’re completely missing the point. My husband left Cecily because he fell in love with me. For the past four years, we’ve been slaves to her pain. I don’t know what possible motive you think he could have for wanting anything to happen to her new boyfriend. He was happy about it!” When he looked up at her, her face was slightly flushed, nearly the color of her pink sweatsuit, and she was looking almost triumphant.

Quinn sat up. “Wait a second. He knew they were sleeping together?”

She looked suddenly nervous. “He told you that, right?”

“He said he didn’t know.”

“Well, he probably just didn’t want to confuse things. He’d seen them together, by accident. He was really embarrassed about it.”

“When was this?”

“Oh, a few months ago, I guess.”

“Did he ever confront Churchill about it?”

“No. He didn’t even know what his name was. He’d been at the showroom a few times and interviewed George, but it wasn’t until this whole thing with the body in the woods that he put it together that that’s who it was. Besides, why would he confront him? He was happy about it. Why can’t I get that through to you?”

Quinn had to admit that it made sense. “All right. Thanks for your help,” he said. “I may be in touch again.”

Lauren Whiting walked him to the door and held it open until he was safely outside. “I’m sure you will,” she said. “I’m sure you will.”

Cecily Whiting’s house was a little split-level ranch on a cul-de-sac behind the Hill cemetery. It was painted yellow and the green shutters set off the carefully landscaped yard, flower beds encircling the house, two half barrels filled with yellow chrysanthemums flanking the front steps. He knocked on the front door and waited. She must have been watching from the window, because the door opened immediately and he could see she had been crying. She was wearing panty hose, nice shoes, and a dark skirt that looked as though it was part of a set, but on the top, she had on an old Boston Red Sox T-shirt. It was as though she’d been half dressed when she’d gotten the news.

“I know,” she said. “One of my neighbors told me. I know already, so if you’re here to tell me, don’t bother.”

Shit. Now he wouldn’t be able to see her face when she found out. But he had to be sure. “You know that Kenneth Churchill’s body was found early this morning? He was murdered.”

“Yes. I told you. I know.”

“Okay. Do you have any idea who might have wanted to kill him?”

“No.” She put her head in her hands and a new wave of grief—or something—swept over her as she cried in front of Quinn. It struck him how different her reaction was from Beverly Churchill’s. “How could I possibly…? Of course not.”

“Ms. Whiting.” This time he remembered. “Were you angry with Kenneth Churchill for not leaving his wife? Had you thought he was going to leave her?”

“Oh.” She sank back against the couch. “You don’t understand. How can I make you understand? He wanted to leave his wife. I didn’t want him to. What would I have done with him? What, was he going to move down here and marry me? I can’t explain it to you! My husband is the only man I’ve ever loved. Kenneth was just…” She was crying and she choked out the next word. “Revenge!”

He gave her a minute to compose herself again. And then he asked her, “Do you remember what you were doing the weekend of October second and third? I need to ask everyone.”

She gave him a look he couldn’t quite identify and got up to go over to the dining room table. She took a silver PalmPilot out of her handbag and scrolled down. “Pres was at his father’s, so I was here alone on Saturday night, and then on Sunday I went for a walk by myself in the morning and then I came back here by noon, when they dropped Pres off.”

“So you were alone all morning? Where did you go for a walk?”

“I didn’t go up to the clubhouse, if that’s what you mean. I just walked around town, and then I had coffee and read the paper, and then I came home.”

“Can I ask you something?” Quinn put his notebook down and studied her face. “What was he like? Kenneth?”

She looked up, her large brown eyes surprised. “He was brilliant. That was the first thing you noticed about him. He wasn’t exactly what you’d call a handsome man, maybe, but there was something about him. People were attracted to him. He was one of those people who everything they do, they do it to the tenth degree, you know? When he got into the reenactments, he got into it all the way. He was obsessed. He was obsessed with his book. For a while, anyway, I think he was obsessed with me.”

“So, why didn’t you return his feelings? He sounds like he was a good catch.”

She looked thoughtful. “I told you, I thought of him as revenge. If I’m honest, I’m still in love with my ex-husband. But maybe there was more to it. Kenneth had this way of looking at you. It was like he was a child. He could be taunting. I don’t know how else to describe it. It was like he sometimes took pleasure in other people’s discomfort. I remember one time when I was feeling guilty about spending so much time with him and I was telling him that I didn’t think we should see each other anymore, I looked up at him and I could see that on some level he was enjoying it, enjoying my anguish. I don’t know why. There are people who get off on other people’s emotion that way, you know.”

She took a sip of coffee and sat back, playing with the hem of the T-shirt. “I wouldn’t be surprised if that was why he got killed. It was the way he looked at you. Like he couldn’t imagine anything he’d rather be doing than enjoying your discomfort.”

Toby had breakfast with Sweeney and Megan and then left for Cambridge about eleven. Once he was gone, Sweeney put Megan in her stroller and went in search of Will Baker. She found him in the lounge, changing the magazines on the coffee table for new ones.

“Hi,” she said, watching as he carefully fanned out the magazines,
Architectural Digest
on top, then a few
New Yorker
s and
Boston
s and some others she couldn’t see.

He jumped. “Oh, hello. I’m sorry, you surprised me.” He was wearing a green wool vest over his white broadcloth shirt, and it actually suited him, made him look vaguely outdoorsy. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“There is,” Sweeney said. “Remember when I asked you about Kenneth Churchill, about whether he’d ever said anything to you about Whiting or Baker being a spy?”

He stood up suddenly, blinking at her, and didn’t answer.

“Well, I think that Kenneth Churchill told you he’d seen a letter written by a British officer documenting the murder of Josiah Whiting by John Baker. Am I right?”

Will Baker stared at her for another few minutes, then sat down on the couch. Sweeney sat down across from him.

“He told me he had proof that John Baker had killed Josiah Whiting, proof that directly contradicted Baker’s famous account of April nineteenth. I couldn’t imagine what it could be. I mean, it didn’t make any sense. They were best friends and I had never heard anything about this, I mean even remotely. It was crazy. He didn’t tell me about the spy charge, though. I was surprised when you asked me about that.”

“Were you worried he was going to tell people about it?”

“Yes, I…I got worried about what would happen to my business if people knew. I mean, part of the reason people come to stay at the inn is that there’s a long history here, and John Baker is part of that history. But he said he wouldn’t be publishing the book for a while and he needed to verify that the letter was legitimate. So, I thought I had some time. I even thought maybe he’d forgotten and it was over. You, you’re not going to…?”

“I don’t think so,” Sweeney said. “Not unless it’s absolutely necessary. Besides, we don’t even know why he killed Whiting. Maybe there was a good reason.”

“Maybe,” Will Baker said. But he looked upset, and Sweeney felt guilty leaving him there.

She was carrying Megan and the stroller down the front steps when she saw Pres coming toward them. He was wearing khaki pants, a blue sweatshirt, and the Red Sox hat and was looking down at the ground. He seemed troubled, and when Sweeney called his name and he looked up at her, she knew he’d heard about Kenneth Churchill.

“You okay?” she asked him.

“They found another man,” he said, looking up at her, his giant, sad eyes shadowed by the brim of his hat. “Did you know?”

“Yeah. I did.” She wasn’t sure what to say. Did Pres know that Kenneth Churchill had been his mother’s lover? She still wasn’t sure.

But he solved the problem for her. “Can we go for a walk?” he asked her. “I want to tell you something.”

Sweeney nodded. “Do you mind if Megan comes?” He shook his head. “Where do you want to go?”

He looked into her eyes, and as though it was the most obvious thing in the world, he said, “Up to the woods.”

*   *   *

They walked slowly up Monument Street. Pres seemed more tired than usual, and Sweeney pushed the stroller along, enjoying the feel of the light autumn sun on her head. Megan fell asleep and they were silent as they walked, as if they’d agreed not to say anything until they’d reached the woods. She remembered the first day she’d met Pres and how she’d followed him along this very route, into the trees. A police car passed them, going too fast, and she saw him flinch.

They turned off the sidewalk into the woods, and Sweeney remembered the feeling of peace she’d had that first day. The leafing trees gently shaded the path and the wind moved through them, whispering. The colors were so vibrant, she suddenly had the feeling that they couldn’t get any more beautiful, that this was it, this was the brightest these colors could be.

“Okay, Pres,” she said gently. “What’s going on?”

He didn’t say anything for a minute, and then started with, “You know that day, when we found that man?” Sweeney nodded. “Well, you’re right. I did do something before you got there. But it wasn’t anything bad. When I found that man, I didn’t want to tell the police, because I was afraid they would go in the clubhouse.” They were almost there and Sweeney had the feeling that he wanted to wait until they had arrived to go on, so she let him walk along in silence.

“There was a key,” he said when they’d reached the little structure. “We kept it under that rock over there. There didn’t used to be a key, but then some of the high school kids started coming down here to do bad stuff, so my grandfather had to get a lock because he was worried that if something happened it would be his fault.

“When I saw the man, I got worried that maybe he’d gone inside, so I went to check the door and it was open and the key was in it.” He looked up at her. “I know you’re not supposed to move things when someone gets killed, but all I did was lock the door again and take the key out. I didn’t know that man and I didn’t know why he would open the door. How did he know where the key was?”

It was a good question. As he talked, Sweeney started to see a little glimmer of light. She knew Pres didn’t see it, but it was the only way the whole thing made any sense.

“Pres,” she said. “Who knew where the key was?”

“Just my grandpa and my dad and my mom and maybe Lauren.” And Kenneth Churchill, Sweeney thought. Quinn had said that Kenneth Churchill had gone with Cecily to the clubhouse. Kenneth Churchill must have known.

“Pres, remember when we were talking about how it feels when your parents start dating other people and I asked you about your mom and you said maybe she’d dated a man. Who was it? Can you tell me who it was?”

Pres looked very embarrassed. “I’m not sure,” he said. “But I think maybe Mr. Baker.”

“Mr. Baker, who owns the inn?”

“Yeah.” He blushed and she felt terrible for causing him so much embarrassment. “I think so. One time I came home from being at Dad and Lauren’s and he was over and she seemed real nervous. And then another time I saw him waiting for her at the museum.”

“Okay,” Sweeney said. She hadn’t expected him to say Will Baker. “But the thing I don’t understand is why you didn’t want the police to go in the clubhouse.”

“Well,” Pres said. “It’s because of the General.”

“What?” Sweeney’s mind swam. The General? Was there some ghost of a Revolutionary War general haunting the woods? Hadn’t Pres said something about local kids believing in a spirit who screamed as if in pain?

“Maybe he’s…Let me show you.” Pres fumbled in the pocket of his jeans for a minute and came out with a key. He strode over to the clubhouse, moved aside the sagging yellow police tape, and opened the door, holding it for Sweeney. She left Megan and the stroller just outside the door and followed him inside. The clubhouse was dark, with brown-and-orange curtains at the windows, and she could just barely make out a low couch, a coffee table, and some boxes in one corner. There was a not-unpleasant smell of mustiness, like an old attic full of treasures. It took her eyes a minute to adjust and when they did, she saw Pres go over to the couch and lean over. And then she saw a small black kitten stand up and arch its back, stretching against Pres’s hand. He mewled once, an oddly dignified mewl for such a small cat.

“That’s the General,” Pres said. “I named him that because he has medals on his shoulder. See?” He picked the kitten up and held him up so Sweeney could see the three small medal-shaped patches of white on his jet-black fur.

“But, Pres, why didn’t you just take him home?” The kitten was stretched out in Pres’s arms, purring as though his life depended on it.

“My mom won’t let me because she said it could make me sick because of my immune system. And Lauren’s allergic and my grandma already has three cats and they’re mean to each other, so I think they’d be mean to the General. Maybe you could take care of him? Just until I get better and my mom lets me have him.”

“Pres, I’m staying in a hotel at the moment and I don’t even…Look, he’s probably fine here for a while. The police have been in and out and they haven’t found him so far. Where did he come from?”

“I was walking home through the woods a month ago and he came out of the bushes. Someone must have left him here. I was walking toward the clubhouse and he went up to the door like he wanted to go in. So I let him in and he jumped up on the couch and stretched out like he wanted to stay. The next day I brought him some food and water and I left the window open a little so he could go out to go to the bathroom. So, then I just started coming by every day to feed him. He’s really nice. You would like him. And he’s very clean. I haven’t had to clean up after him once.” The General looked up from Pres’s arms as if to say, “It’s all true. Every word of it.”

“Oh God, Pres. Let’s leave him here for now and see what happens, okay?” Seeing the look of disappointment on his face, she added, “I’ll think about it, okay?”

“Okay.” He seemed happier as he locked up the clubhouse and they started back toward town. In front of the inn, Sweeney said she was going to take Megan in and put her down and Pres said he was walking back to his mom’s house.

“Thanks,” she said, “for telling me all that stuff.”

“It’s okay,” he said. Sweeney watched his face for a minute. He was very pale and there was something in his eyes that spoke of weariness, but he seemed happy.

“Do you want me to drive you back?”

“No,” he said. “I’ll just go slow.” And then, with a strange little nod of his head, he turned and walked away.

It was 10:30 by the time Quinn got back, and when she heard him knock, Sweeney opened the door and pushed him out into the hallway, shutting the door behind her. “Megan’s sleeping,” she said. “But listen to this. When Pres got there and found Tucker Beloit’s body, the door to the clubhouse was open. So, someone had been in there, someone who knew where the key was. Pres didn’t want the police to go inside, so he locked it again, but someone was in there before Tucker Beloit was killed.”

Quinn looked confused. “Okay,” he said. “Someone was in there.”

“Where was Kenneth Churchill killed?” Sweeney asked him. “Have you figured that out yet? Is there any chance he was killed by the clubhouse too?”

“Who knew where the key was?” Quinn asked. Sweeney could see his mind working around it, trying to put it all into place.

“George Whiting, probably his wife too, Bruce Whiting, I imagine Lauren, Cecily Whiting, and Pres Whiting. But here’s the thing. We know that Cecily Whiting took Kenneth Churchill to the clubhouse, so he must have known where the key was. But isn’t it likely that she took other lovers there too? If it was a revenge thing, that’s what she would do. I just found out that at one time, Cecily Whiting was probably seeing Will Baker, so it’s pretty likely that Will Baker knew where the key was too.”

Quinn thought about that for a minute. “Okay,” he said. “But what about Tucker Beloit?”

“You know what?” Sweeney said. “I’ve been thinking about it and I don’t think Tucker Beloit was meant to die. I think that someone was in the clubhouse and Kenneth Churchill came along and there was a fight and Kenneth Churchill was killed. And I think Tucker Beloit saw it happen. I don’t think Tucker Beloit had anything to do with it. I think he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“So Kenneth Churchill was the intended victim?”

“It looks that way, don’t you think?”

“Maybe.” He rubbed his eyes. “Look, I’m so tired, I can’t even begin to sort this all out. Let me take Megan off your hands and we’ll talk about this in the morning.” He was holding a manila envelope and he handed it over. “This is the stuff that was found in Churchill’s car. If you could take a look through it and see if there’s anything new on his research, that would be great.”

“Sure,” Sweeney said, feeling deflated. “I’ll take a look.”