The Death of Perry Many Paws (47 page)

he front page of the newspaper was filled with the final story of Raymond Ketchum’s murder. With Muriel’s help, the police had all the details they needed. Sybil’s violent death took a back seat to the discovery of the ransom money and the solution to the kidnapping/murder of 1938.

The paper had wanted to interview Claudia about her brother and the money but she had refused. Cam, assuming his professional MBA persona, had talked to them, explaining that Claudia had been six years old and there was no one left who had been around on that fateful night. The paper had printed a three-day series on the Ketchum kidnapping and murder and now everyone knew the part Franklin had played, why he had become a recluse and why there had been $10,000 hidden all over my house. There was no theory about his murder.

Public opinion seemed to sway toward Franklin being an innocent bystander who had panicked when he discovered he had inadvertently played a part in the kidnapping/murder, and had hidden the evidence. Since he was a member of Birdsey Falls’ most prominent family and never spent any of the ransom money, people were quick to forgive him. He was just fifteen.

Meanwhile I was now haunted by what had happened Halloween night along that star-lit road in addition to not knowing who killed
Franklin. I didn’t know what had made Sybil do what she had done but deep down I knew her crash had been deliberate. I was seriously considering asking Grace to hold a séance in her bookstore so we could attempt to contact Sybil and ask her to explain.

Fortunately for me, the police weren’t as mystified by Sybil’s actions as I was. They were quick to believe both that a middle-aged woman would have incontinence issues and that a seventy plus woman would mistake an accelerator for a gas pedal. That story was my next-to-last gift to Sybil.

By the second week in November, things appeared to be back to normal in Birdsey Falls. People were preparing for Thanksgiving and arguing over when was the appropriate time to start decorating for Christmas. Abbey had done well on her midterms and was looking forward to finals and the end of her first semester at college. Cam and Bing were busy planning the Thanksgiving menu despite the fact that it was always the same. Claudia had accepted the fact that we would never know who killed Franklin and seemed relieved that the whole town was no longer talking about it. Ryan was doing his community service as a volunteer at Bugg Hill, alternating between bussing tables and doing yard work. He was still being blamed for both the break-ins at our house although he would admit to only one. Syra was relieved that Bing had been protected from finding out the truth about his mother’s past and still believed her to be the happy housewife he remembered. Diane was back to flirting only with her husband. Grace, Hugh and Ryan had tentatively settled into a more comfortable, although not problem-free, family life. By Thanksgiving Day it appeared that everyone was moving on.

Except for me. The police had it wrong. The paper had it wrong. I was the only one who knew what really happened and, like Franklin,
I was cursed with the burden that could only be released upon death. Not my death. Someone else’s.

The day of Sybil’s funeral, Claudia had given me a small package wrapped in
Hello Kitt
y paper. Sybil had left all her worldly goods to Claudia but had asked Claudia to give this to me. I put it in my purse, reluctant to look at what she had left for me, and it wasn’t until later that night, after Cam had gone to sleep, that I remembered it. I had put on my robe and slippers and crept downstairs to get the package out of my purse. It was small and lightly taped but my fingers fumbled with the brightly colored paper and my eyes filled with tears, picturing Sybil sitting on the side of her bed, wrapping this and knowing she would be gone when I opened it. I eased myself into a chair and slowly pulled the paper apart. Inside was a second package wrapped in tissue paper with a brief note attached.

Franklin loved the works of Edgar Allan Poe
.

I contemplated that thought for a few seconds and then opened the tissue paper. Inside was a lovely white linen handkerchief with an ‘SB’ monogram. If it wasn’t the exact handkerchief we had found after the break-in it was certainly its twin. Sybil’s handkerchief. I clutched at the handkerchief and wandered into the library, plopping down on the couch in a daze. Mycroft grunted to acknowledge my presence.

So it was Sybil who had broken into our house the first time. Actually, she didn’t need to break in because Claudia had a key. She walked in. Why would she do it in the middle of the night? Maybe because she and Claudia were inseparable and that was the only time she was alone. She could hardly leave in the middle of the day and tell Claudia, “I’m going to break into Tamsen and Cam’s house. I’ll be back
in time for dinner.” Plus, I was frequently in the house during the day. If it were in the middle of the day I would notice someone coming in my front door and rummaging around. But if we were asleep upstairs, anyone with a key could move in and out of the house at will as long as they didn’t make any noise.

“But why, Mycroft? Why would Sybil need to sneak into our house? What did she need?” Mycroft rolled onto his side and his feet began jerking wildly. He was obviously in hot pursuit of a squirrel and not listening to me.

I closed my eyes and must have drifted off. I was jerked awake by the hugest brown eyes in the world. Mycroft obviously was puzzled as to why I was in his “bedroom” in the middle of the night but he was completely accepting and non-judgmental and I didn’t feel I needed to explain myself. I was his human and no matter how foolishly I acted he would love and accept me. I reached over and scratched his ears. “I love you,” I whispered. Mycroft circled his rug several times and then flopped back down and went to sleep.

I neatly folded up the Hello Kitty wrapping paper and the tissue paper and placed them on top of the note. I would keep them all together until I could figure out what it meant. Maybe it didn’t mean anything. Not everything in life was a mystery waiting to be solved. Unless you counted this October. That had been one mystery after another. But now it was over. I bent over to pat Mycroft one last time and for some inexplicable reason thought of “The Purloined Letter.” It was a short story by Edgar Allan Poe. In the story a stolen letter is hidden in plain sight, but no one can find it because they are looking in elaborate hiding places. Why was I thinking about Edgar Allan Poe? Because Sybil had wanted me to.

Franklin loved the works of Edgar Allan Poe
.

I realized that, after the break-in, nothing had been missing because Sybil hadn’t taken anything. She had left something: her monogrammed
handkerchief by mistake and something else on purpose. Something that she was directing me to with her final note.

We had two complete collections of Edgar Allan Poe’s works. Cam’s father had bought a matched leather-bound set thirty years ago and Franklin had had an entire set in his cottage. They were now on the library shelves next to the newer leather-bound set. I ran my fingers along the bindings until I found a collection of short stories containing “The Purloined Letter.” I didn’t even need to open it up and shake it to see the envelope wedged behind the front cover. It was addressed to me.

The first time I read it I was perched tensely on the edge of the couch, my breath coming faster and faster until I reached the end. The second time I read it I was lying next to Mycroft, reading it quietly to him. The third time I read it I never made it to the end because tears were coming too fast to wipe away and I couldn’t go on. I pushed it under the couch and laid down next to Mycroft, snuggling into this warm body and crying into his fur coat.

Thanksgiving was a huge success. Bing, Cam and I were an awesome team in the kitchen and everything came out perfect. Abbey’s friend from New Zealand was the most charming, intelligent, handsome young man she had ever brought home for us to meet. It was quickly evident that they were not, nor would they ever be, a couple. Too bad. I would have had the most beautiful grandchildren in Birdsey Falls. Maybe that wasn’t as grandiose as having the Behrends last name but it was certainly something.

Bing didn’t have to talk to anyone he didn’t know. Syra was getting her appetite back and even asked for seconds. Grace, Hugh and Ryan were obviously trying hard to be a family and Ryan even entertained
us with some elderly antics from Bugg Hill. Diane, Scott and family weren’t here. At the last minute they decided to take a family trip for the long Thanksgiving weekend and were at a ski lodge in Vermont. Claudia seemed her usual self and with a couple of people around the table who hadn’t known Sybil, it somehow made her absence easier to accept.

The day after Thanksgiving, Abbey and her friends were up early to participate in Black Friday sales. They had been gracious enough to invite Cam and me to join them. Cam had eagerly accepted but I pleaded post-Thanksgiving fatigue and stayed home. I had one more important thing to do.

The envelope from Sybil needed to be hidden, well hidden. I had kept it nearby for several weeks and read it over and over but now it was time to find a resting place for it. It was time to move on. I was home alone but still sought the privacy of the secret stairwell leading from our bedroom to the library in which to sit and read the letter one last time.

Dear Tamsen
,

         
If all has gone well, no one will ever read this letter. But since Franklin’s death I have known that it is unlikely. It’s important that someone know the complete truth to the kidnapping/murder of Raymond Ketchum as well as the solution to Franklin Behrends’ murder. I tell only you, Tamsen. Truth is only beauty when it doesn’t destroy someone’s life. We cannot protect the dead at the cost of those still living. I trust you to honor this
.

         
If you are reading this it is because I have already told you what I want to be the official version of the Camden Woods murder. Much of what I told you about the ransom incident was correct. Ernie Whitcomb was fascinated with Franklin’s treasure maps and he did ask him to make a map of the ransom drop in Camden Woods. Franklin had no idea why or what it meant; he was just flattered that
an adult respected his map-making skills. Franklin had no part in the planning or the execution of the kidnapping. All he did was innocently make a map for the guy who did the yard work
.

         
Unfortunately for all of us, it was the night of the ransom drop that Franklin told the four of us about the map he made for Ernie and made us a replica. Franklin, Edmund and Hetty were quite keen on trying to discover what Ernie needed the map for. There was much speculation that he was hiding cigarettes or whiskey in the woods. Maybe naughty magazines. Maybe meeting a lover. When you’re fifteen, the idea that you might catch a man and a woman making love was pretty exciting stuff. I remember Hetty hoping he hid cigarettes because she had no interest in seeing Ernie Whitcomb naked. Claudia and I thought the whole thing was funny. We were six and nothing short of a treasure chest of jewels would have satisfied us. It never occurred to us that a man like Ernie Whitcomb would be unlikely to possess a treasure chest of priceless jewels. Like I said, we were only six and still believed in Santa and the Tooth Fairy and becoming princesses when we grew up
.