Chapter 3

Sheriff's deputies came. A man and woman in uniform, first. They got on the radio, and more came. Eventually, a woman whose name tag said Starks moved me into the kitchen. Indira was there with the same boy I'd seen yesterday. They both looked at me, and then the boy stared down at the floor between his feet. Bare feet, I noticed. And the same board shorts. The same tee that looked stiff with salt. Indira, though, kept her gaze on me. Finally, she asked, "Is it Vivienne?"

"I don't know. Maybe. It looked like her sweater."

I didn't want to think about what I'd seen. It had been bad enough seeing it once—thank God I'd been far enough that I couldn't make out the details. I tried to turn it into a story: coming home, parking in the garage, the pure chance of spotting something red. If it had been another color, I might not have even noticed. That helped for a while. But other thoughts started to creep in. Vivienne's story about the balcony. About Nathaniel Blackwood and his unnamed bride falling to their deaths. How I'd made a joke about staying off the balconies. I'd made a joke. I was sweating, I realized, my face hot and greasy. I thought I was going to be sick.

We were there for a long time. Men and women came and went. I could hear them going through the house. Raised voices. Questions. The words indistinguishable. A few passed through the kitchen, slowing to look at us, but nobody stopped. Nobody talked to us. Nobody was watching us. A part of me—a part that was still in shock—had a dry little laugh. I decided we weren't suspects, at the very least, since any decent law enforcement officer would have known to separate the suspects.

A couple of hours passed before footsteps came from the servants' dining room and a man entered the kitchen. He was white, thin, with a long face and a pronounced jaw. His hair looked like somebody had airbrushed it onto his scalp. A gold badge pinned to his khaki uniform said SHERIFF. He looked at Indira and nodded.

Indira covered her eyes with one hand. The boy squeezed her free hand, and Indira gripped him back.

"It's her?" I asked. "It's Vivienne?"

The sheriff turned his attention on me. After a long moment, he said, "You're Mr. Dane, is that correct? Dashiell Dane?"

"Yes. Is it Vivienne?"

"Mr. Dane, do you have identification?"

"Yes, I—what?"

"Let's start with your ID."

I took my driver's license from my wallet and handed it to him. He studied it for a minute, and then he called, "Bobby?" A deputy stepped into the room, and I recognized him immediately: golden skin, glossy black hair in a razor part, and a way of carrying himself that made me forget, for a moment, that he was a few inches shorter than me (although in way better shape). This was the deputy who had ticketed me on my first day for leaving the Wrangler parked on the side of the road. And I had a sneaking suspicion he'd given me my second ticket as well. The sheriff handed him my license, and he left without a word. Then the sheriff looked at me again, longer this time, the silence stretching until it felt like it would snap.

"Indira," he said, still looking at me. "You go on back to your place. Keme, can't you be a normal kid for once?"

The boy—Keme—shot the sheriff an unreadable look, but he rose from his chair without a word and padded toward the door. Indira went with him, her eyes red as she wiped tears from her cheeks.

"Mr. Dane," the sheriff said, "my name is Sheriff Jakes. I'm sorry this is how we had to meet. I've got a few questions that I hope you can help me with."

"Of course."

"Did I get it right that you came here yesterday?"

I nodded.

"And you're staying at Hemlock House?"

"I'm living here. I moved here."

"Really? What were you doing before?"

"Teaching. Just an adjunct position."

"That sounds nice," the sheriff said. He reached up like he might touch that airbrushed-on hair, but he lowered his hand before he could. "We can't get enough teachers. So, what brings you to Hastings Rock?"

"A job. I'm Vivienne's administrative assistant."

The sheriff nodded, but he said, "That's quite a change, isn't it? You've got a Rhode Island license, and you moved all the way across the country, left your family and friends behind, to start a job as a secretary."

"Well, administrative assistants—"

"Why don't you explain that to me?"

For a moment, all I could do was stare at him. "I'm a writer. A mystery writer. And Vivienne is one of the most famous authors in the world." The sheriff didn't respond, so I added, "I jumped at the opportunity."

He made a noise that could have meant anything. "What's the nature of your relationship with Ms. Carver?"

"I just told you—she's my boss, I guess. What's going on? Was that her? Why won't you tell me what happened?"

The sheriff pulled out a straight-backed chair and sat. "Mr. Dane, Vivienne Carver died sometime last night from a fall. Now, I don't know you, and you're new to this house, and I'd like you tell me the nature of your relationship with Ms. Carver."

"Oh my God, she's dead? That was really her?" I rubbed my face. "We didn't have a relationship. She knows my parents—knew my parents. I'd never met her before." I couldn't seem to get any words out. "She was so kind."

"Why don't we go over your movements from the last twenty-four hours?"

That cut through the fog. I raised my head. "Excuse me?"

"Where have you been. What have you been doing. That kind of thing."

The mystery writer in me long-jumped to the worst possible situation: "Am I a suspect? Wait, do I need a lawyer?"

"Right now, Mr. Dane, you're someone who's not answering some simple questions. I'd like to finish this conversation so I can move on with my investigation. You're not under arrest, if that's what you're asking. So, if you want to call a lawyer, go right ahead."

I thought about it. But it seemed…excessive. And even though I'd written plenty of stories about people demanding an attorney, now that I found myself in the same situation, there was an unexpected pressure not to make a scene. Not to do anything, in fact, that might make me look guilty. Which was a bizarre thought, but I couldn't help it. "I—I got to Hemlock House yesterday morning around nine. I stayed in a motel outside Portland, and I drove the rest of the way in the morning. I met with Ms. Carver, we agreed I'd start the job, and then she wanted me to talk to her attorney, Mr. Higgins."

"Huggins," the sheriff said.

"Right, Mr. Huggins. They were in her office all day. Literally all day. I got settled in my room. Unpacked, that kind of thing. I didn't have anything else to do. I ate dinner here. I read. I fell asleep—oh! Someone slammed a door. And there was a car." I related, as best I could, how I'd been woken, and what I'd seen. If my powers of recollection impressed the sheriff, he didn't show it. "This morning, I went into town for coffee." I gestured miserably to the bagel and coffee, now cold, on the kitchen counter. "That's all."

"Can anyone verify your movements?"

Now that sounded like a question that called for a lawyer, but there was something about the sheriff's impersonal, hard gaze that made me say, "I've got receipts. From the motel. And Indira was here. And someone named Fox. And Millie. Mr. Huggins, too, I guess. And then this morning, I saw Millie again when I got coffee."

"What about last night?"

"I was in my room."

"Can anyone corroborate that?"

I opened my mouth, but I knew the sheriff already knew the answer: no. Nobody had been in the house except for me and Vivienne. The best I could come up with was a shake of my head.

"Tell me, Mr. Dane, have you ever been inside Ms. Carver's bedroom?"

"No."

"Never?"

"No!"

"Are you in possession of any of Ms. Carver's belongings?"

"What in the world—of course not!"

"When was the last time you saw or spoke to Ms. Carver?"

"In the hall, when Mr. Huggins arrived."

"Are you aware of any disputes, legal troubles, or personal conflicts in Ms. Carver's life?"

"No."

"Did Ms. Carver express concerns about her safety?"

I almost told him about that strange story about Nathaniel Blackwood and his wife. Somehow, I managed to stop myself, and I shook my head.

"Was Ms. Carver involved in any significant financial transactions recently? Or changes in her financial state?"

"Are you kidding? I talked to her one time."

"What about you, Mr. Dane? Have you had any major changes recently in your personal or professional life?"

"I just told you I have."

"Emotional or financial difficulties?"

I stared at him. I'd grown up with parents who specialized in the macabre, where talking and reading and thinking about things like exotic murders and due process and, yes, homicide interviews were part of daily life. And I knew, now, my gut had been right. The sheriff could say whatever he wanted, but I knew I was a suspect. And the only smart thing to do was to stop talking.

Instead, though, I ran my mouth. "Why are you sitting here talking to me? I already told you everything. I barely knew her. I'm sorry for what happened to her, but it's not like we were close. Shouldn't you be out there, documenting the scene or waiting for the coroner or medical examiner or whoever it is, protecting the scene from the elements so you can process it, canvassing for witnesses? Shouldn't you be doing literally anything else except sitting here talking to me?"

The sheriff pursed his lips. "Believe it or not, Mr. Dane, I know how to do my job. As sheriff, I'm an authorized medical-legal investigator for the State of Oregon. We're not waiting for the district medical examiner because I've already ordered the body removed from the scene. My deputies know how to document evidence. The scene of the crime, as far as I'm concerned, is inside this house. And this is an isolated stretch of coast on the outskirts of a small town. If you've got witnesses, I'd love to meet them."

The scene of the crime is inside this house. I shook my head and stood. "I'm done with this conversation."

"Mr. Dane, don't be difficult. I've only got a few more questions."

"You can set up a meeting with my lawyer."

"You didn't leave your room? Not once last night?"

I knew better than to answer, but I said, "No, I never left my room. And no, I don't have an alibi, I don't have any witnesses, I don't have anyone who can corroborate my statement, so I guess you'll just have to take my word for it."

He nodded. And then he said, "I'd like to show you something, and you can decide if you'd like to talk some more."

Without waiting for a response, he stood and headed out of the kitchen. I followed him through the servants' dining room, up the back set of stairs, and emerged into the upstairs hall. A deputy was photographing Vivienne's door. Maybe the sheriff saw the question on my face because he said, "Her bedroom door was still locked. The door to her study, too. We had to force one of the doors to get in. So, that's one of the questions, isn't it? How did someone get inside Vivienne's room last night?"

A part of my brain noticed his switch from Ms. Carver to Vivienne. That same part of me noticed the edge in his voice. The barely hidden anger.

"Maybe it was an accident," I said. My brain kept telling me to stop talking, but I couldn't seem to hit the brakes. "Maybe it was suicide."

The sheriff didn't respond.

"If that's what you wanted to show me," I said, "then you're out of luck, because I didn't even know those doors were locked, and I don't have any idea how—"

"That's not what I wanted to show you."

The sheriff stopped at my door and pushed it open. I was surprised, and then not, to see Deputy Bobby going through the dresser, lifting out my clothes with gloved hands and examining each article. He looked up, and something like chagrin passed over his face when he saw me, but then the emotion was gone.

Two words popped into my head: search warrant. I opened my mouth, about to scream lawsuit, but before I could, I saw what the sheriff had wanted to show me.

The back of my big old fireplace stood at a ninety-degree angle, like it had pivoted on a hidden axis. And through the opening it had created, I could see another bedroom: a large canopy bed, an antique dresser, and deputies going over every inch of the space for evidence.

A secret door, my brain said. Twelve-year-old me would have been thrilled to live in a house with a secret door. But I knew what this meant. I knew why the sheriff had kept asking if I'd left my room the night before. I knew why he'd wanted to show me this. Because no one could have gotten into Vivienne's room; the doors had been locked. No one except me, with the secret passage in my bedroom. And because I hadn't known that, I'd sat there and hammered the final nails into my own coffin.