Page 24 of The Dead Come to Stay
“Not that. Or, notonlythat.” Green was scrolling through her phone. “Ava Burnhope—is also Ava Thompson. Look.” She held up the phone to reveal Ava attired in brilliant red at a piano under a spotlight. “I didn’t put it together at first, but she was well-known in the city. Daughter of Newcastle’s chief executive officer, Andrew Thompson—he’s outlasted two Lord Mayors.”
MacAdams took the phone and scrolled; two images down Stanley appeared at her side, both of them posing with another woman in front of a banner that read Fresh Start.
“I take it that’s Sophie.” He handed the phone back. “We’ll go there next.”
Chapter 9
Itstillwasn’t bacon, in Jo’s opinion. And it didn’t compare with Tula’s sausage rolls. But it was hard not to enjoy something warm and buttery, especially when you were walking on your own through damp, open country.
Jo parted with Gwilym at the branch between Upper and Lower Lane; he was headed back to the Red Lion—she just wanted to put her feet up at home. The first time she’d taken the right to roam train from cottage to town, it seemed endlessly long. Now she did it regularly, sometimes once a week in the warmer months. Lone walks gave her brain a chance to unspool—no conversation to keep up with, no one asking for explanations. Just her own thoughts. And a bacon butty, which would have benefited from fresher bread.
The disappearing hiker had been walking alone, too. Nothing strange about that, though mostly the hill hikers came in pairs or groups. The Pennines could be surprisingly tricky. One hill lookeda lotlike the next hill, cell service was spotty, fog rolling in unexpectedly. People did get lost. A woman and her dog got lost on the peak of Ingleborough in the late fall; freezing weather moved in, and a rescue team had to track themdown. Then there was the runner who fell; they didn’t findhimuntil it was too late. Granted, Abington hugged a corner in the southeast, where the geography happened to be a lot more forgiving.
Still, watching a hiker disappear almost before your eyes...
Jo stopped walking and spit out a bit of unchewable back-bacon fat. That more or less ruined the experience. She rewrapped the sandwich in the least-greasy bit of paper and shoved it into a pocket. The wind had picked up a bit; it smelled fresh and green. A friendly sign stood prominently near the road proclaiming Jekyll Gardens. She wasn’t far from home now. And there was that word again.
Home. Jo rolled it around in her mouth, repeated it and held the lastmmmuntil her lips tickled.Dwelling, domicile, residence, room... evenhousejust didn’t have the same feeling. And that was it; homefeltlike something, didn’t it? Her nose twitched and she rubbed it absently. Where did she feelathome?
She picked up her pace, hurrying up the lane until she could see the trees that backed Netherleigh Cottage and catch the first glimpse of the chimney. There, in the stomach, she felt the tug. When had that begun? It had been the scene of one murder and was the last place Ronan Foley ever stayed the night (ifhe stayed the night). But for Jo, it was definitely home. She was practically running now, fast as she could in rubber boots on slippery grass. Her hearth, her little reading nook, her books and books and books—
Buzz buzz.
And her cell phone signal. Back from the dead zone, she would have catching up to do. Gwilym telling her he’d got back, and what Tula made for Sunday dinner, probably. She unlocked the dead bolt and dropped the keys in the dish by the door. The bacon butty went into the garbage; the cell phone she scooped out of her jeans pocket while slipping out of her raincoat.
It wasn’t Gwilym. An email had arrived. Jo opened the app,one arm still ensleeved. Sender: “Arthur Alston.” Subject: “Are you the niece of Aiden Jones?”
Jo stopped breathing for twenty-three seconds, the time it took for the message to load.
Dear Ms. Jones,
I read about you and the gardens in the Newcastle Times. I apologize for dropping you a line out of the blue, but I knew Aiden Jones very well. I would like to meet you. If ever you’re in town, I’m at Loft 8, Hadrian Hall, Quayside, in Newcastle.
Yours sincerely,
Arthur
Jo put her coat back on. She also checked the train app.
Dear Arthur,she wrote.I’ll be there in one hour and forty-seven minutes.Which gave her exactly three minutes to pack and eleven to drive to Abington Station. She charged the ticket fare on her way out the door.
Chapter 10
The newest building of the country club stretched long, low and glass-covered; MacAdams half expected to see planes landing on the tidy lawns. The new-modern sensibility followed them indoors, where a front desk stood to one side of a glass wall bubbled to look as though water cascaded down through it. The signage emblazoned upon pointed out the spa on the lower level, bar and restaurant to the rear in a portal of white marble and steel.
“Like Burnhope’s house,” Green mused. “I’m beginning to prefer Abington Arms.”
They had asked after Sophie and received a negative; she was a busy woman. Producing his police ID and mentioning a murder investigation had placed them on better footing. The guest clerk told them to await Ms. Wagner in the bar, which was, on balance, the best reception that they’d received so far. It also gave them opportunity to look about.
“Morning, sir. Can I get you a drink?” A youthful, tweed-vested barman had appeared before them.
“Not quite lunch hour. A bit early, isn’t it?”
“Depends on preference,” he said, tugging a bar towel over one shoulder. “And beverage—we’ve a coffee machine.”
“Thank you, no,” MacAdams said. “Instead, I’d like for you to tell me about the gala on Friday.”
He’d opened his identification once more, as did Green. The bartender examined their cards and seemed to warm to them both.
