Page 55 of The Dead Come to Stay
“You couldn’t see him before he went?”
“No time. He was there. Then he wasn’t. But I think that might be a blessing, frankly. We hadn’t any scores to settle, myda and I. Good terms.” Jo felt a little shiver run across her synapse. It occurred to her that he was telling her personal things, and she wasn’t sure he’d ever done that before.
“I had all sorts of unanswered things to settle,” she said. “But eight months of hospice didn’t actually solve it. So I’m inclined to agree.” Jo was testing herself, like testing thin ice. But she’d managed to speak of her mum and not fall through, so she walked a little bolder. “I know what she was hiding now. I even know why. But that hasn’t actually solved my mystery for me.”
“You mean about Evelyn,” MacAdams guessed. Jo wondered if she should clap like Chen did. Instead, she ordered a bacon-sausage-hot-pepper slice.
“Evelyn, why her painting was done by a different artist, how and why it was destroyed. Her death. And—andher missing baby,” Jo explained. “Aiden knew. Had to have known. At least, I think so. I might be making big leaps.”
“Little stories based on clues, isn’t that what you called it?” MacAdams asked. “Try me.” He’d ordered a far less flamboyant pepperoni, and both slices were now ready to hand. Jo took one very cheesy, wonderful, awful bite before continuing. To be honest, she preferred it to opera cake.
“You ever readWuthering Heights?” she asked.
“Heathcliffe and Catherine. Actually, I saw one of the movies.”
“Well, the book is like a—a mirror. No, better; like those nested Russian dolls. Things keep duplicating, but the repeat is a smaller, less impressive version than the first. Anyway, there are two Catherines a generation apart. One of them comes to a bad end.” She waited to see that he was following. Between pizza bites and beer swigs, he seemed to be. “Evelyn is Catherine the first. She gets pregnant; now we know it was an illicit affair with her brother-in-law. Wedon’tknow what happened to her, or her baby, but being buried under a house is a pretty sticky end.”
“I think we can agree on that,” MacAdams said.
“Right? So my mum is Catherine the second. At least, to Aiden. Pregnant out of wedlock, forced out of the family home. Lost, in her own way. He told Chen that he would ‘take Evelyn home.’ Like finding his sister, again, I think.”
“But he doesn’t end up doing that,” MacAdams pointed out.
Jo sighed. “No. He died. Chen wasn’t even sure what happened to the painting till I told her. There was alotof damage to the painting. Chen worked on it for six whole months.”
MacAdams had a new slice halfway to his mouth and stopped cold.
“Six months,” he said. “I’m beginning to hate this unit of time.”
“Because of the Foley murder?” Jo asked. It was a shot in the dark, but a good one, as MacAdams was technically here to investigate.
“Six months ago, his life altered. We have been told that he may have been on thin ice at his job, but that seems consequence rather than cause. What would you think if a man sold his house, dyed his hair, began—or continued—seeing a young lady and made a sow’s ear of his job?”
“That he was having a midlife crisis,” Jo said. Because, without meaning to, he’d just described Tony. “My ex was turning fifty-five. Got a gym membership, started vitamin supplements, managed to sell out the publishing house from under me. And, of course, step out with a twenty-eight-year-old publishing employee on the fast track.”
“I see the similarities,” MacAdams said, but Jo frowned.
“The thing is, I met him, right? And this doesn’t sound like him at all. I mean, it’s not...” She was trying hard to avoid sayingvibeoraura. Her sense of people was actually a lot more like instinct or some subconscious recognition of pheromones. “He didn’tfeellike a Tony.”
In fact, she could almost see him now: disheveled, surprised. On recovery, more like a guy in a hurry. He certainly wasn’tsmarmy or creepy, didn’t act like the big man or try to push her around. And he liked Jammie Dodgers, which somehow seemed the antithesis of Tony-ness.
“I try not to discredit your feelings,” MacAdams said. “Anymore.” He’d dispensed with the tie earlier, and with his jacket off, looked almost like not a policeman. Jo noticed he also had marinara on his chin.
“Actually, you’ve been really kind about my feelings today,” she said, feeling an embarrassed blush starting at her neckline. This was an improvement. She’d been too exhausted to feel embarrassed earlier. “I really appreciate it.”
“You... are welcome.” He seemed to be weighing something in his mind. After a moment, he brought out his phone. “You understand that I amnotasking you to get involved. But what do you make of this?”
He’d shown her a police-style photograph, white background with a ruler for scale. A golden earring featured in the center, ornate and curiously wrought.
“It’s not like anything I’ve seen,” she admitted.
“That might be because it’s a thousand years old. Or at least pretending to be.”
“It’s from the case?” Jo asked, realizing that this was a moment of surprising trust.
MacAdams nodded and took the phone back. “We found it near the body. I don’t suppose Gwilym would know anything about it?”
“Can you send it to me?” Jo asked, because even if Gwilymdidn’tthe two of them could certainly find out.
