CHAPTER THREE

Her father looked smaller than she remembered, which didn’t make sense, because it was the same man she’d just seen a few months before when he came to visit her in the city while doing a reading at the 92nd Street Y. Only in his early seventies, Daniel lived a full gregarious life. But now he was sitting very still in the breakfast nook, hands flat on the table on either side of a glass of whiskey. George realized this might be the first time in her life she’d ever seen him in this room without being in motion—making dinner, writing down a rough draft, stretching for marathon practice, loading up the car to go to a community event. Stillness was not Daniel’s default state.

She leaned against the kitchen counter diagonally across from him and didn’t know what to think, some animal part of her brain still hadn’t caught up to the fact that the frantic part of her day was now over. There was nowhere left to rush. The counter was worn smooth from years of the family leaning against it in various conversations: Daniel working character dialogue out loud to daughters who couldn’t have cared less growing up, Vivian on the phone with George who filled her in on dates and work drama. Callie, George’s younger sister by ten years, excitedly bracing herself while telling the family she may have met the one in Nate.

Like the counter, the house was also worn in. The MacDougal family home was the one constant in Popham Harbor ever since Daniel and Vivian renovated it in the early 1990s. A classic Victorian coastal house that when George and Callie lived at home felt at times too small. But ever since her parents became empty-nesters, it felt adequate with Vivian repurposing the formal dining space into her office, and the girls’ rooms becoming de facto guest and storage rooms. Daniel’s study was where it had always been, at the top of the stairs on the second floor, its windows looking out on the front lawn, and other houses in the Popham Harbor Historic District.

The mudroom door banged, clearly from a hip, not a hand, as Callie came in sideways with a grocery bag and a bottle of wine wedged under one arm.

“Okay, they were out of the good bread, I got the seeded kind, don’t anybody yell at me—” She stopped in the kitchen doorway the second she saw George, and her face held relief and grief in the same expression. “You’re here.” Callie set the things down on the counter, crossed the kitchen and hugged George hard, the wine bottle still in her hand, cool against George’s back through her sweater. Even though she was ten years younger, Callie was a good four inches taller, and more slender than George. For a long time neither of them moved.

“I got the wine you like,” Callie said finally, pulling back, wiping under one eye fast with the back of her hand. “The cheap one. The one Mom always said tasted—” She stopped herself. “I got wine.”

“I need it.” George was already opening the drawer where the wine key was kept.

The mudroom door banged again, quieter this time, and Nate came in carrying yet another grocery bag, still dressed in his professional clothes of a blue button-down, khaki pants, and brown shoes with fleece vest. Callie must have picked him straight up from work. The two of them sharing a car since moving in together five years ago. He set it on the counter and walked across to hug her. This one lasted not quite as long as the sisters’ had.

“Hey, George. I’m sorry about Vivian.”

“Thanks, Nate.”

He unzipped his vest and sat down on the window bench at the table across from Daniel.

“The Ouellettes sold,” Callie said, head in the fridge while she moved leftover containers around to make space for the new groceries. “The blue house on Sycamore. Couple up from Boston, didn’t even blink at the standard murder disclosures. Nate said the guy asked more questions about internet providers. Oh—the trolley tour added a new stop, too. The Pelletier case from Dad’s book, two releases ago. The guy who owned the land died, and his kids decided to capitalize on the tourist money. And Mrs. Voss who teaches fourth grade FINALLY retired. We’ve got Ms. Trent now. She just graduated college, so thankfully I don’t need to show her how to use Kahoots. The kids tease her, because she’s from away, and she keeps calling murders, “incidents,” like they’re the ones that need the euphemism. There’s a pool in the teachers’ lounge on how long before she says the “M word.” I’ve got money on two more months. She seems like she’s the type to hold out and then snap.”

Daniel hadn’t moved from the table. “Voss retired,” he said. “When did that happen?”

“August, Dad. You went to her retirement party. There was cake. And someone related to her was murdered.”

“Right. A second cousin.” He nodded slowly, filing it away somewhere it might actually stay this time.

George poured herself an entire glass of wine before offering some to the rest of the family. Callie took her up on it. Nate declined, he was driving. She set the bottle down on the island, and then leaned against the counter in tree pose.

“Dad. Can you walk me through it again? One more time.”

He looked up at her then, properly, for the first time since she’d arrived.

“George,” Callie said, a warning wrapped in her sister’s name, as she settled into the breakfast nook bench next to Nate.

“I just need to hear it in person.”

Daniel nodded slowly. For a man who was renowned for his words, they were now slow in coming.

“I was upstairs,” he said. “In the study. Writing.” Using his hands to create a timeline on the table. “I heard the front door around eleven-thirty. She’d texted me around ten, said she was wrapping up. But didn’t get home until then. I heard her in the front hall. Setting her bag down. Closing the door behind her.” His eyes moved somewhere past George, somewhere that wasn’t this kitchen. “And then nothing, for a moment. Maybe two.” He stopped.

“Dad,” George urged gently.

“And then I heard her fall.” Daniel’s voice was flat. He wanted to get the facts straight, and was lost in the memory. “I called down. She didn’t answer.” He paused, reliving the scene. “I was down those stairs in maybe ten seconds.”

He said it like he was sorry he couldn’t have rushed down sooner.

“I got to the bottom of the stairs and there Ivy was. Crumpled on the floor. Not breathing. I used her phone to dial 911 as mine was still upstairs. I did CPR like the operator told me. I don’t know how long until the medics came. She was DOA and you know what my first thought was?” He almost laughed. “Forty years in this town. A thud at eleven-thirty at night and my brain goes straight to murder. Mick Herron would kill for that kind of irony.”

It went over as well as could be expected. Callie asked for a refill. Daniel sipped the whiskey in front of him.

“I meant it as a joke. Poor timing, I’ll admit. But Ivy would have laughed.”

The tension slowly leaked out of the room. George topped off her wine, now was the part of the story she cared about. “What did Mom look like when you found her? Had she fallen? Was she bruised? On any medication that would make her lightheaded? Did she have any doctor’s appointments recently? Some health thing neither of you had gotten around to telling us?”

“Not that I knew of. Longer hours and you know how she forgets to eat sometimes, but Lisa swore to me to keep the office stocked with protein bars, and there are plenty of leftovers in the fridge. None of her meds have changed in over two years. There was blood everywhere, mostly on the back of her head, like she’d hit it during her fall. But it all happened so fast. The EMTs were here, and then they were all gone, and had taken her with them.” Daniel stared at his hands. Callie reached over and took one.

None of that helped George understand what happened to her mother. She couldn’t fault her father. Her mother was the trained medical examiner, and she was now the deceased. George dealt with wounds and bodies all day, but never in an emergency life-and-death situation, and always at a remove from knowing the person on her table.

“At least she’s at her office,” George said. “I can go down and talk to Lisa tomorrow. She can’t give me access until after the autopsy is conducted, but I can see what information is available.”

“Thanks, Georgie.” Callie looked up at her in earnest. Though George had meant it more for herself. She’d need something to do. Waiting for the autopsy report would be torture. She had no desire to suit up and take a scalpel to her mother, but she couldn’t shake being unable to help at this moment.

Nate stood, stretched, then proceeded to open cabinets he clearly knew better than George did, until he found a box of microwave popcorn shoved behind the cereal. He didn’t ask anyone if they wanted it. The bag went into the microwave, and the kitchen filled with the normality of the smell of butter and salt.

George slipped out while it was turning, carrying her suitcase and coat with her.

She made it as far as the bottom of the stairs. The rug runner from the vestibule to the front hall was gone. The room smelled slightly of disinfectant from where Callie had probably tried to clean the blood off the hardwood floor. Other than that it looked normal. Her mother’s bag on the small bench in the hallway where she always dropped it, her shoes kicked off next to the shoe rack in the small vestibule that separated the outer door from the inner one, perpetually propped open by the lighthouse doorstop that was older than George. Though she could see by the discoloration on the floor that the inner door had been moved. Probably from the EMTs.

Behind her, she could hear the microwave beep twice.

She hauled her suitcase up to the guest room, which had once been her old bedroom, and now contained the standard queen-sized bed kept for company. But the room wasn’t sterile and ready for guests. One of her mother’s multiple pairs of reading glasses sat folded on the nightstand beside a paperback splayed face-down, a library sticker on the spine, due back two weeks ago. A charger was still plugged into the wall by the bed. One of Vivian’s fleeces hung over the back of the desk chair, and when George moved it to set her bag down a faint floral smell came up out of it. She figured her mother slept in here recently on the nights she got home too late to want to wake Daniel.

She returned downstairs, wearing sweats and pulling her hair into a ponytail. The smell of microwaved butter had mellowed. She grabbed the wine bottle off the island, dropped into the free chair, tucked her feet up underneath her and took a handful of popcorn from the bag.

“How was the flight?” Nate asked, his arm resting against the back of the bench behind Callie.

“Fine. Not exciting.”

“Wait—Mom said you were on a date last night?” Callie shifted her weight. George reached for more popcorn. “Fine. Not exciting.”

“That’s it?!” Callie had hoped for more details.

“It’s not going anywhere. Asked all the usual questions about Dad.” She nodded her head to Daniel, who remained uncharacteristically quiet. Sensing the moment called for more small talk, George turned her attention elsewhere.

“How about you, Nate?”

Nate ran his hands through his brown hair while he thought. “The office got new computers today, which is the most exciting thing that’s happened to me all month,” Nate said, earnestly. “Otherwise, I’ve been untangling insurance claims for three beach houses up north. Harbor seals have taken over the decks. They’re federally protected, so nobody can move them, and I’ve got millionaires arguing over which government department moves them, who pays for that, and damage costs.”

George reached for more popcorn. “At least nobody died.”

Nate chuckled, almost a real laugh, and Callie pressed a hand over her mouth like she wasn’t sure whether she was allowed to.

“Georgie!” Callie exclaimed in the tone she used when trying to discipline her students while hiding her amusement.

“I’m just saying. That’s one murderer profile this town hasn’t had yet.”

Daniel didn’t laugh but something in his shoulders loosened half an inch. “Ivy would have liked that joke.”

The room had the feeling of winding down for the night. Callie glanced at Nate before she spoke. “You guys don’t have to stay here tonight. You could come to ours.”

“I’m not sleeping on the pullout for you, but I’ll at least say I offered,” Nate said. Callie elbowed him hard in the side.

“We can make room,” Callie pressed.

Daniel shook his head. “We’re alright, sweetheart.”

“Dad—”

“We’re okay,” George said, backing him up. “Really. We’ve got each other. Go home. Get some sleep.”

Callie looked between them, clearly wanting to argue it further and not quite finding the ground to stand on. “Okay.” She stood, reluctant, and pulled her father into a hug he held onto a beat longer than usual. “Call me. Either of you. Any time.”

“We will,” George said.

The mudroom door clicked shut behind Callie and Nate, their headlights sweeping briefly across the kitchen window, and then it was just Daniel and George again.

Daniel was still at the table. He hadn’t moved all night.

“You want me to wait up with you?” George asked, shoving the bag of popcorn into the trash can.

“No.” He said it gently, but there wasn’t much give in it. “Go rest, Georgie.”

“Okay,” she said finally. “Yell if you need anything.”

He nodded, already looking somewhere past her, and George made herself go upstairs.