“Everyone makes assumptions about Ned. They don’t even give him a chance,” she muttered.
“What does Ned do?” Ellery asked.
“He’s in a band. He’s a musician.”
“Ah. What kind of music do they play?”
“Psychedelic pop. Like the Glass Animals.”
“Really? That’s cool.”
Libby said, “It’s very cool, and Ned is a very cool person. He has a day job, but that’s all it is.”
“Right. What’s his day job?”
“He works for Mr. Samms at the Peevish Pig.”
The Peevish Pig had been around for twenty years, but was still referred to as the “new” butcher shop in the village.
“Does he like working there?”
“Nobody likes their day job.” Libby shifted down as they started the rise to Captain’s Seat, and the sunlight flooding through the windshield flashed off her bracelets. One bracelet in particular.
Ellery considered those sparkling black stones. What were those? Black Onyx? They looked as brilliant as sapphires. The setting was engraved and looked like silver. Most of the bracelets Libby wore were tiny beaded things or leather wraps with crystals and quartz. This bracelet was different. It looked heavy and old. It looked valuable.
A prickle of unease ran down his spine.
“That’s pretty.”
Libby glanced over in inquiry, then followed his gaze to her bracelet. She smiled. “It’s an antique. It belonged to Ned’s great-grandmother.”
“Is it serious between you two?” Ellery asked slowly. If Ned was giving her expensive bracelets, maybe Tom had reason to be alarmed.
“Maybe,” she said shortly, and he knew that tone of defiance was not for him, but for everyone who was telling her Ned was bad news.
The rest of the drive passed quickly and in silence, and before long, Libby was circling the drive before Captain’s Seat.
Ellery had been expecting to see his battered VW sitting in the drive, but there was no sign of it.
“Where’s my car?”
Libby looked surprised. “I don’t know. I’m sure no one would steal it.”
She pulled to a neat stop before the front steps.
“Safe and sound.” She glanced at Ellery, did a double take. “Gosh, you look sick. Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” Ellery opened the cab door and cautiously climbed down. “I’m just tired.”
“You want me to come in with you?”
“No.”
“I could make you a cup of tea.”
He smiled. Shook his head. Libby was a good kid. “No, I’m fine.”
“Okay,” she said doubtfully. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“Well, see you later.”
Ellery raised a hand in farewell, then slowly climbed the steps, letting himself into the house.
It was strangely, sadly quiet with no Watson to run circles around him, yipping and whining his feelings on every subject known to dog. Ellery was very glad Jack was going to drop the pup off that evening. Glad too that he was going to see Jack—though he was trying not to make too much of that.
As he walked down the freshly painted hall, he considered inviting Jack to dinner, but as much as he liked that idea, he really didn’t feel up to cooking. Or eating. More than anything, he wanted to lie down and think.
A cup of tea sounded good, though.
He made his way into the kitchen. Everything looked exactly as it had when he’d left the house Monday morning—which felt like a year ago. Luckily for the hastily rinsed dishes in the sink, it had not been a year.
Slowly, he set about filling the teakettle, getting a mug out of the cupboard, checking that the milk in the fridge was still good.
While he went automatically through the motions, he tried to reassure himself that he was worrying about nothing.
There was no reason this Ned kid shouldn’t have had a great-grandmother who bequeathed him a beautiful, valuable piece of jewelry. Anyway, the bracelet might not be valuable. To the naked eye, good costume jewelry could easily pass for something more expensive. You didn’t have to be familiar with costume departments to know that.
And yes, the Peevish Pig made their deliveries in a white van, but the van had a sour-faced pig logo emblazoned on the side panel. The van he had seen at the Barbys’ had no logo, no markings. Granted, the logo could have been hidden somehow. Taped over with butcher’s paper?
“You’re letting your imagination run away with you.” His voice sounded loud in the empty kitchen.
If the kid did use the van for deliveries, he might be familiar with a lot of homes on the island, familiar with who was in residence and who wasn’t, familiar with which places had cameras and security systems.
“You’re jumping to conclusions.”
Yes. He was. And he was starting to talk to himself, a sure sign he had been living alone too long. He was making a lot of assumptions based on the simple fact that Libby had been wearing an expensive-looking bracelet.
The teakettle whistled, startling him out of his reflections. Ellery rose, poured the boiling water into the mug, dipped the tea bag, opened the counter drawer, and pulled out a teaspoon.
Just an ordinary teaspoon.
He stared at it, stared at it, stared…and suddenly he was back in the Bloodworth mausoleum, holding a tiny silver spoon, studying the distinct seaflower pattern in the weird flickering light.
Memory flooded back in a sickening rush. He smelled Watson’s damp fur, the ocean, the unnatural, dry, dusty scent of time stopped in its tracks. He felt again his confusion and then the shock as the significance of that spoon in that place sank in; he remembered Watson’s deep warning growl, and the horror of looking up to see that thing standing over him.
He closed his eyes, feeling light-headed.
That thing. He—his attacker—had been wearing Brett’s mask. The Medico della Peste.
Of course. It all made sense now.
Well, no.
But a lot of it made sense now.
He pulled his phone out and pressed Jack’s number.
It went straight to message.
He hung up. Tried again.
Straight to message.
“Hey,” he said, and his voice sounded wobbly and strange. “Can you call me?”
He disconnected, put the phone down, and went over to the table to sit before his legs gave out.
Why the hell was he so shaky?
Oh. Right. Ned Shandy with the candlestick in the mausoleum. Or maybe it had been a wrench. Or a lead pipe. He was just grateful it hadn’t been a revolver.
It could have been a revolver.
But no. Because the revolver had been left at the scene. Because Brett had brought the revolver.
His cell phone rang, jolting him out of his thoughts, and he snatched it up.
“What’s wrong?” Jack’s voice was hard and anxious. Ready for action, a missile asking for a guidance system.
“I remember. And I know who did it.”
“You remember who hit you?”
“No. Yes, that too. I know who killed Brett. And it wasn’t Julian. I’m sure it wasn’t.”
“Ellery—”
“I can prove it. Well, no. I can’t prove it. But I think I can convince you.”
Jack said patiently, “Listen to me. We’ll talk this evening. I promise. Right now you should be resting, and I should be in a meet—”