The Monet Murders (The Art of Murder 2)
Jason said, “I don’t trust anyone.”
Chapter Thirteen
Mrs. Merriam was ready for Jason.
“Mr. Durrand is out walking,” she announced defiantly. “He likes to take a walk after lunch.”
Jason smiled. This was actually the good news. Barnaby was back. He’d been right to follow his instincts and head over to the estate early. “Great,” he said. “Which direction did he go?”
She did not like his smile. “I have no idea,” she said stiffly.
What was it about the Barnabys of the world that made the Merriams and Keatings so ready and willing to jump in front of a firing squad for them?
“Where does he usually like to walk?”
“I have no i—”
Jason said gently, “Maybe Mrs. Durrand might have an idea where her son likes to walk.”
It wasn’t subtle.
Mrs. Merriam flushed. “I think he was headed toward the old fort. He sometimes goes in that direction.”
“I’ll have a look. Thank y—”
The door banged shut.
The woods smelled wet, dank and earthy, like a newly dug grave.
Full moons, thunder and lightning, dark and stormy nights were the staples of both thriller and horror films, but in Jason’s opinion there was nothing more mysterious or eerie than fog winding its silent, sinuous way through the woods, smothering sight and sound in a soft white shroud.
He found himself walking more quietly, carefully down the uneven trail. He was not trying to sneak up on Barnaby. The idea of Barnaby running from him was kind of funny. Barnaby was far too dignified to flee or skulk behind bushes. He might walk away briskly, but that would be about it. Still, Jason couldn’t shake the feeling of, well, foreboding.
Every snap of a branch stopped him in his tracks, eyes scanning the tree-punctured gloom. It was so quiet that every drip, drip, drip of moisture off pine needles seemed magnified. He could hear a dog barking clear on the other side of the island.
It would be way too easy to lose direction in this murky soup of trees and mist. Better to take his time.
About ten minutes or half a mile from the Hovey mansion, Jason heard a man speaking. He couldn’t make out the words. He drew closer and almost fell over a short iron fence.
He looked beyond the fence and could just make out moss-covered headstones and a tilted cross. A graveyard.
He stepped over the low fence and took a look at some of the gravestones. Marble stones carved with the image of an urn and/or weeping willows were typical of the early-to-mid-1800s. Sure enough.
Hirah Kelley
was drowned
off North Bay
Nov. 8, 1834
aged 34 Years
The next stone read:
In Memory of
MARY GAGE