Page 5 of The Gallagher Place
Henry seemed to be avoiding Marlowe’s gaze.
“Did Dad give him permission to hunt here?”
“Doubt it.” A cautious smile, of all things, came to Henry’s lips. “Think about it, Marlowe. Does that seem like something Dad would do?”
No, their father wouldn’t have liked anyone pestering him about selling his land. And he certainly wouldn’t have rewarded that with a hunting lease.
“Even if he had permission, it’s odd to be hunting the morning after Thanksgiving,” Marlowe said.
Henry shrugged. “Some people find it relaxing.”
Marlowe had never fired a rifle herself, and she didn’t have any desire to do so. Over the years, she’d seen plenty of trophy antlers displayed in various establishments around Dutchess County. The elegantly curved tines reaching out, the blackness of the tips revealing the number of years the animal had lived in the wild. She didn’t care how big its antlers were or how majestic they appeared tacked up on the wall; a deer was still a deer.
THREE
Harmon Gallagher.Marlowe turned the name of the dead man over in her head like a shard of glass she had discovered on the ground. Something that should fit into a shattered windowpane, if only she could find the other pieces.
It had been hours since they’d returned to the house, and Frank had given everyone the news. The body belonged to Harmon Gallagher. A local police officer had been dispatched to Harmon’s mother’s house just one town over; this wasn’t the kind of news given over the phone. She claimed she hadn’t seen him since the previous day at Thanksgiving dinner. He usually went out before dawn to hunt this time of year, and she’d figured that had been the case. A photograph confirmed it was him. Once she identified the body in person, it would be official.
Marlowe would have liked to spend the day in the Flats, watching for any movements and aberrations in the land that could explain such a horrific incident, but the family was told by the police to stay in the house, so as not to accidentally destroy any evidence. Their own footprints already covered the scene.
By now, the family had scattered throughout the house, taking refuge in the privacy of their rooms while they waited for thehomicide detectives to arrive. Only Marlowe and her mother sat by the fire in the living room, Glory in her red armchair and Marlowe cross-legged on the floor with her chin propped on her hand.
“You have work to do?” Glory asked.
Marlowe had steady illustration work, but her focus dissipated the moment they’d found that body.
“There’s always work,” she said. “But how am I supposed to get my mind off something like this?”
“I thought I taught you the powers of compartmentalization. Discipline, sweetheart.”
“You didn’t see it,” Marlowe said. “It was bloody.”
“Lots of things are bloody,” her mother said. “It’s none of our concern. The professionals are going to handle it.”
“But it’s our property.”
“No,” Glory said. “It’s my property. Mine and Frank’s.”
How could she forget? Frank and Glory owned the land. It wasn’t Marlowe’s. It wasn’t Nate’s or Henry’s. Nothing was set in stone. The matter of future ownership was always held over them. Frank still hadn’t devised a plan for the inheritance.
Marlowe studied her mother’s placid brow, her steely comportment. All of it was a result of having been raised on a farm in the country, milking cows and picking corn and even helping slaughter pigs. Despite her designer clothes and tasteful gold earrings, Glory had grown up accustomed to blood and death. But surely Glory had thoughts. She couldn’t possibly be sitting in that chair, devoting all her attention to theNew York TimesArts and Leisure section. Not when the air was so weighted with uncertainty. Marlowe wanted to shake her, pry open the vault that was her mother’s mind, to hear something—anything—that revealed the deep currents running beneath the surface. But Glory remained a locked door. Her response to crisis was for her daughter to busy herself with a sketch pad.
Marlowe’s mind whirred as she reluctantly descended back into the basement. Her best theory, based on what little she knew, was that two hunters had gotten into some sort of fight, and it had turned ugly.
She looked at her sketchbook, pencils, and watercolors strewn over her drafting table, but work felt futile in a moment like this. Still, she was restless. Stepping through the French doors that led to the back patio, she settled onto the stone bench against the side of the house, watching as the light began to change. This was a peaceful place to admire the garden, the orchard, and the silent woods atop the hill. A retreat from the city. That was what this Hudson Valley house was supposed to be: a wholesome family sanctuary to escape the crowded city life and the bittersweet pain of growing up too fast. A haven, her father sometimes called it. If that was the case, why did bad things still happen? It made the magic of the Gray House feel like a broken promise. Even so, she loved this place more than any other.
Her mother sometimes snuck a cigarette on this little bench, among the foxgloves, tiger lilies, and hostas. For once, Marlowe wished she were a smoker so she could partake in a minor vice. What she really wanted was a drink. There was a bottle hidden deep in her closet, somewhere Glory wouldn’t find it when she poked around, but Marlowe didn’t go get it; she had to stay sharp for whatever was to come. She shouldn’t be nervous. Marlowe hadn’t done anything wrong. She never had, and yet a feeling of guilt crept up on her as the sky behind the apple orchard turned pink, then violet, then dusky blue, then black.
She was stepping back inside when Nate appeared at her bedroom door.
“The detectives are upstairs,” he said. “They want to talk to us. All of us.”
Marlowe was tempted to click her heels and salute. Yes, sir. Whatever you say, Captain. That was what Nate wanted. To be in charge. To be the commander in chief. He wanted to be the honorable and good-natured leader of their merry band.
Marlowe followed Nate up the stairs to the large living room.
The detectives, a man and a woman, stood in the middle of the living room in black coats over their button-downs and slacks. The man was tall and groomed, in a well-tailored coat; his dark hair was neatly combed away from his face, highlighting his smooth olive complexion. The woman, by contrast, had a short, stocky build. Her hair was scraped back, and she had circles under her eyes. She had made no attempt to brighten her complexion with makeup or even a friendly smile. Their ages were hard to place, but neither of them looked over forty. The man had a calmness to him, but the woman, Marlowe noticed, was jiggling change in her pocket.
