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  But she didn’t. She pulled out the card and threw it down in front of Oliver.

  It stared up at him, damaged from the snow.

  “This is yours, I believe.”

  He nodded, but didn’t speak.

  “You know where I found it?”

  He inclined his head again.

  “How did it get there?”

  “I dropped it.”

  “Before or after you killed him?”

  Oliver’s face broke into a broad smile, like the Cheshire cat. His eyes narrowed to nothing.

  “He was dead before I got there.” A dead man. The Hanged Man. Destined to die. It had little to do with Oliver. It would have happened even if he hadn’t come here.

  She flipped the Tarot card over.

  The Hanged Man.

  “If he was dead already, how did you know to bring this card?”

  “Ah, that is the magic of the Tarot. It is the Tarot that speaks, not I.”

  “If you didn’t kill him, why did you go down the trail, why did you bring this card, why did you leave it there?”

  He held up his hands.

  “One question at a time, please. You are making me dizzy.”

  “Dizzy like Fitzpatrick was? Dizzy enough to lose his balance on the fly – if pushed?” Jamieson was angry with herself for drilling him with questions. One at a time. That was the method, unless you were going in for the kill. She wasn’t sure that she was. She backed up.

  “Why did you go out?”

  “I sensed trouble in the air.”

  “We call it snow.”

  “That, too.” He shivered. “Nasty stuff.” He clicked his fingers, and Ginger jumped on his lap. White leapt onto his shoulders and wrapped himself around his neck. Instant warmth.

  “And the card? Why did you take it?”

  “I was doing a reading. It happened to be in my hand.”

  “In your hand as you put on your coat and your gloves?”

  “Ah, but I didn’t.”

  “In that weather, you went out in your clothes?”

  “No. The coat, of course. The gloves…”

  He shook his head, his brow furrowed in that peculiar V.

  “…apparently not.”

  He held up a hand as Jamieson began to speak.

  “And don’t ask why – as you seem so fond of doing. I can’t tell you why. I don’t know why. I was called to do it.”

  “Called to kill Fitzpatrick?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then what?”

  He sighed. It seemed they were going around in circles.

  Jamieson frowned, pointed to the card, and began all over again. Something here didn’t make sense. He’d either killed Fitzpatrick himself, or knew who had.

  Jamieson began a second round of questioning at Jared’s. He was nursing a hangover, looking very rough with bloated face and bleary eyes. His voice was rasping. Jamieson wanted to avoid looking at him, but she had to, to see those giveaway signs that he was lying, or, less likely, that he was telling the truth.

  “Were you there when he began the flips?”

  Jared grunted.

  “Is that a yes? Were you there when he started?”

  Jared grunted again. He’d learned to say as little as possible to police.

  She made a note of it.

  “No.”

  Silence. Jamieson’s signature technique.

  “I’d gone by then,” he offered. A small offering, thought Jamieson. She’d get more out of him yet.

  “Did you hear anything?”

  “No.” Jared swiped a sleeve across his nose. Jamieson looked with distaste at the snot he’d left on the arm of his coat. His dirty fingernails.

  “Mind if I smoke?” he asked.

  “I do,” said Jamieson.

  Jared didn’t usually let that response stop him. Especially in his own house. But there was something about this Jamieson even he didn’t want to cross.

  “You heard nothing?”

  “Not a thing.” Jared stood up and went to the fridge.

  “Mind if I have a beer?”

  She did, but she just shrugged. Maybe it would get him talking.

  He opened the fridge, stuck his head in. “Would you like one?”

  “No, thank you. Not on duty.”

  “I was gonna mention that,” he said. “So when you’re not, how ’bout you ’n me, we do the dirty?” Moist lips curled in a yellow smile.

  Jamieson’s lip curled in distaste. Jared slumped back in the chair.

  “You were saying you heard nothing.”

  “That’s right.” He took a swig and burped.

  “Not a shout?”

  “No.”

  “A cry for help?”

  “No.”

  The sound of branches bending, breaking?”

  “No.”

  “The sound of a man squirming in a tree, trying to get free?”

  “No.”

  “A struggle? Guttural, choking noises?”

  “No.”

  “What did you hear?”

  “I told you, nothin’. I was wearing my iPod.”

  What a waste of time he was. Jamieson had been hoping to wear him down into some kind of admission. Murder? An accident? He might have caused it or been a witness to it and might be scared to say.

  “Do you think Fitz was murdered?”

  Jared was silent. He took another swig of beer.

  Why should he help out the cops?

  “Nah,” he said. “I think it was an accident.”

  “Why? What makes you think that?”

  “Cause I didn’t do it.”

  “You killed someone once.”

  “That was an accident.”

  “That’s what the judge ruled.” Jamieson’s tone told him she was unconvinced.

  “That’s always comin’ back to bite me.”

  “Didn’t you think it would?”

  “They don’t pay me to think. That’s your job.”

  Jamieson left. Of all the people who might have killed Fitz, he was the one it would give her the greatest pleasure to arrest.

  Any of the others – no pleasure at all. That thought had been with her for a while. It had finally surfaced, and had begun to work at her. No pleasure. No pleasure at all.

  Rose was slicing a turnip when Hy came in. As if she were killing it… Or killing Fitz all over again?

  That was the thing that troubled Hy – and she bet it troubled Jamieson as well. When a woman killed, it was often in rage. Stabbing repeatedly. Shooting a load of bullets into the victim. Working out years of anger and frustration in a volley of hatred.

  Not tipping someone off balance. That was for someone more subtle. Oliver. That would be his style. Just a bit of a push and…voilà.

  “He wasn’t always bad, you know.”

  Rose finished slicing the turnip. Dead. She scooped the pieces into her apron and slid them into the pot of boiling water on the wood range. She wiped her hands on the apron and sat down on the stool by the stove. Hy sat in the recently reclaimed rocking chair opposite.

  “He had a hard life.”

  Hy’s mouth was set in a grim line. She wasn’t inclined to soften on Fitz. She’d seen too much she didn’t like.

  “The real story is – ”

  Hy leaned forward, eager. New information. Information Jamieson wouldn’t have.

  “The real story is – he lost a child.”

  That was careless of him. The uncharitable thought whipped through Hy’s mind, fast enough that she didn’t utter it.

  “He killed his child.”

  Hy’s mouth dropped open. She couldn’t speak.

  “His son.”

  “When
…where…how?”

  “His only son.”

  What about Jamie?

  “Your child?”

  “No. Not my child. That other marriage. There were the two girls and then the boy. Just three years old. Sticking his head out the window of a trailer as Fitz backed up. The boy fell out and under the wheels. Fitz never saw him, couldn’t have seen him. Everyone, even the coroner, agreed. He backed over the boy, then dragged him before he found out.”

  “How horrible.”

  “That’s what started him drinking. Seriously drinking.”

  “Was he drunk when it happened?”

  “Well, yes, but – no one blamed him for it, not even the mother.”

  I do, thought Hy. I do.

  “How could you have got hooked up with him – with that history, his alcoholism…?”

  “I told you. It’s the old story. I was young and foolish. I thought I could save him.”

  “Yeah, well I’ve done that, but I didn’t have babies.”

  “Jamie is not his son.” Rose stood up, and began stirring the turnip in the pot.

  Not his son. She’d said that before – to Fitz.

  “Not his? Then whose?”

  Rose didn’t turn. With her back to Hy, she just said, “Mine. Jamie is mine.”

  End of conversation. But not the end of Hy’s curiosity, or the conclusions she was coming to. Rose was lovely, but she was weak. That’s why she’d allowed Fitz to happen to her. And now she and Jamie were paying for it. No matter whose son he was.

  Oliver’s? No, that was just crazy. But Oliver did sometimes call him son.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The Hall was ablaze. From the outside it looked as if it were going up in flames. There were Christmas lights everywhere – strung along the wainscoting, the ceiling, the stage, the window and door frames, even the kitchen cupboards and fridge. The portraits of Queen Elizabeth and Prince Philip were draped with spruce boughs and shiny ornaments. There had been hot debate over festooning the royals. Gladys Fraser and Olive MacLean were on the “over my dead body” side; the others thought that the fading photos of the royal pair could use some sprucing up. Literally. Spruce boughs crowned their portraits.

  It was the dress rehearsal for the Christmas Pageant. All the performers and a sprinkling of mothers and fathers were there. Little Violet Joudry was murdering a fiddle – it sounded as if it were in its death throes. All the while she was step dancing, and doing that not very well either. But her mother Celeste was beaming from stage left, glowing with pride, thankful that, for once, Violet had decided she did feel like doing it after all. Usually she didn’t, and her mother was finding it harder and harder to justify the expense of lessons to Violet’s father, who sat glowering in a chair at the side of the Hall, from where he could slip out easily and, he thought, unnoticed. The other fathers envied him as they whispered, “There goes Frank.” He didn’t really care if they noticed. He’d much rather be with his cows.

  Violet’s screeching and thumping came to an unfortunate crescendo, and then, mercifully, died out. She performed a much-too-precious series of curtsies, and her mother, unable to resist, ran onstage and hugged her, peppering her blond ringlets with kisses. Violet screwed up her face and pushed her mother away.

  Moira and Madeline had shown up after all, unwilling to be left out at the last, and Moira with the certainty that she had cowed her younger sister sufficiently to be assured, herself, of the lead role.

  She’d certainly done a job on Madeline.

  As soon as she walked out on stage, Madeline had a panic attack. She couldn’t even spit out one word.

  “I can’t do it,” she whimpered after she finished hyperventilating. “I’d rather just open and close the curtains, please.”

  Moira smirked and stepped forward. She knew all the lines. She’d been undermining her younger sister for days, nagging away at any small shred of confidence Madeline might have. Moira wanted Ian to see her as the beautiful Shores Ella, not as a mannish prince. She stepped forward, mouth open to volunteer.

  “I’ll do it.” Jamie jumped down from the piano bench. “I’m the understudy. It should be me.”

  Everyone looked at him. Then they looked at Moira. Her mouth wide open, silence coming from it, her voice strangled by this new possibility.

  “I know all the lines.” His big eyes open and appealing. “You’ve seen me do it.”

  “A boy – playing a girl? I never heard of such a thing.” Moira found her voice. Gladys Fraser marched over to Moira in a gesture of support. Gladys took every opportunity to be offended.

  “We’ve been through this. It’s quite Shakespearean, actually,” said Hy.

  “Well, that’s different.” Gladys folded her arms across her chest. Her standard approach to life. Especially when she didn’t know what was being talked about.

  Hy would have liked to tell Moira to leave, that she’d been replaced as prince, except that Jamieson had pulled out because of the investigation. Hy resigned herself to Moira.

  “We need you as the prince.” The word “need” stuck in Hy’s throat, but she could tell it placated Moira, who patted her hair smugly.

  “Oh, all right.”

  Hy nodded at Jamie.

  “Okay. You’re on. Let’s take it from the top.”

  Madeline tugged the curtains, jerking more or less open as Jamie stood on stage, sweeping and waiting.

  And waiting. For the screeching sound of the stepmother to come from offstage.

  Estelle was just putting on a last dab of lipstick and missed her cue. When she did scream, it didn’t happen offstage. She came sailing out and obliterated Jamie from view, until he peeked out from behind her skirt with a cheeky grin.

  The skit bumped along with forgotten lines and cues, but with Jamie giving a stellar performance as Ella. Moira walked through her part with flat expression as the prince, and Annabelle and Gladys made a pair of funny wicked sisters. Gladys wore her usual frown and Annabelle had a wide lipsticked smile and her hair pulled into two bunches on either side of her head. Their feet slipped too easily into the rubber fisherman’s boot. Too small. The prince was looking for the girl with the biggest feet.

  The rehearsal ground to a conclusion with forgotten lines, inappropriate remarks, and all the makings of a perfect Christmas skit. Hy, as narrator, wrapped it up:

  “Every good fairy tale’s supposed to end: ‘And they all lived happily ever after.’ But of course they didn’t. The Prince didn’t like living with his step mother-in-law and went back to his castle. There was no fairy godmother, no pumpkin coach, ratty footmen or mousey horses either. Because this was a true story.

  “And if you believe that, I’ll show you a prince who married a fish girl in rubber boots.”

  Madeline jerked the curtains closed. She had to jump up to put her weight behind the pulley. Why she had ever been chosen for this particular task was a mystery. But she loved it. And it had saved her from being Shores Ella. That made her like it even more.

  Buddy hadn’t been seen in two days. Jamieson had sent Murdo looking for him. Murdo might as well be missing, too. Missing in action, spending his time doing odd jobs for the divorcée. That was Jamieson’s unkind tag for April. She pigeonholed people, gave them a hook to identify them. It was usually not flattering. Annabelle was the tart, Jared the scumbag, Gus the old fool. Ian? Well Ian…had become Ian. On at least two occasions recently she’d called him by his first name. Hy, as close to a friend as Jamieson had ever had, was still not quite a friend. Hy was the woman with the ridiculous name.

  Jamieson didn’t like the idea of Buddy hiding and lurking about. Was he in the woods? Had he killed Fitzpatrick? It nagged at her. He was mentally defective, so he might do anything, she thought. These villagers might trust him with their children, but she did not.

  As for murder, she was no
t sure Buddy could have accomplished it – could have known just when to give that push that would have sent Fitzpatrick somersaulting off the culvert and into the tree.

  He could have done it accidentally, of course. But there were at least three other suspects, three people who knew far better than Buddy when that precise moment would be.

  Rose had told her she’d worked with Fitzpatrick in his acrobatic act, that she had spotted him, so she had to know, with precision, all of his moves. Of all of them, she was the most likely to have killed him. She was the only one who could know the intricate details of his movement, know what would throw him off balance, know –

  And then she always came to a halt in her line of thinking. Rose had seemed so protective of Jamie. If Jamieson had read the signs correctly – one of her skills – Rose thought her son had killed his father. But if she thought that, she couldn’t be guilty herself.

  Could Jamie have done it? Jamie of the bright open face, who had studied his father’s acrobatics. He performed some of them, in fact, better than his father, because he was so light and flexible, and because Fitzpatrick had been out of the habit of performing and very much in the habit of drinking himself insensible. Not to mention the drugs.

  And then there was Oliver. He had trained suspicion on himself by admitting to being down at the culvert. Otherwise, Jamieson could not have imagined him being able to get there, with his squat Humpty Dumpty body and legs you could barely see. He seemed to think Rose or Jamie was guilty.

  What did any of the three know about one another? Were they knowingly withholding evidence? Did they have a pact – two protecting one? But which one?

  Jamieson kept staring at the photographs, as if they would hold some clue to what had happened on the bridge that night. They should, but they didn’t. All the people whose footprints were there had said they were there – without any particular coercion. Their stories sounded reasonable, plausible. So was it an accident? Just an accident? She could just accept it and leave it at that.

  But it was gnawing at her – because, in spite of the plausible reasons, there were as many arguing for murder. The murder of a man who didn’t deserve to live? Maybe not. But justice could not be swayed by that.