Bess intentionally arrived at the historical society at twelve thirty, hoping to get there before Greg. She parked as close as possible so her car alarm could be set off if needed, not that anyone paid attention to car alarms. The illusion of control set her mind at ease.
The front door was unlocked this time and no one stopped Bess as she entered the small foyer, grateful to escape the humidity. It felt like a storm was coming on. She drifted into the gift shop, looking for a good place to set up camp and wait for Greg.
“Your friend was here earlier,” said a voice from behind her. Bess turned and saw Winnie, her face stern.
“What friend?”
“The detective. I thought you said you weren’t with the police. Are the reporters on their way next?” Winnie’s jaw was clenched, her bright eyes now hard green stones.
“Wait—Detective Howland was here? What did he want?”
“To ask if I spoke with you. I told him I had, but only about historical matters. He had a few of his own questions about the founding of Antioch. Seems to have some of his facts confused.”
“He treated me like I was insane when I spoke with him. Why would he come here?”
“Maybe you invited him,” said a man’s voice to her right. Bess jumped, her heart zipping up into her throat. Greg was leaning against a wall in the foyer, arms crossed. His hair didn’t have the stiff gelled appearance it did on their date. Instead, there was the distinctive greasy look of someone who hasn’t showered in a couple of days.
“Can I expect the reporters soon?” Winnie asked again.
“No, Winnie, no reporters,” Bess said. “This is Greg Leeds. With two E’s.” Bess emphasized the spelling, hoping Winnie would be able to remember this detail for the police, in case she turned up missing like Amy.
“Technically, it’s three E’s if you count the one in ‘Greg,’” Greg said.
“Who’s Greg Leeds?” Winnie asked.
“What do you know about Amy?” Bess asked Greg.
“Excuse me? You called me. What do you know about her?”
“Amy Eckhardt?” Winnie asked.
They both looked at her, but Winnie’s eyes were only on Bess. “What do you know about Amy Eckhardt, Bess Jackson? Is that what the detective was in here about?”
“Greg was dating Amy,” Bess said.
Greg’s eyes were darting around the room like he expected the place to be crowded. Taking a look around herself, Bess saw they were apparently alone. Just them and a hundred Antioch magnets and keychains. “Look, Bess, I don’t have a lot of time. I think Vlad kidnapped Amy.”
“Of course the Impaler has her,” Bess said, a little too loud.
“The dragon makes it obvious,” Winnie said.
Bess turned on Winnie. “You’re the one who first mentioned the dragon to me. Why?”
“I’m afraid I can’t say. The police have asked me to keep certain things quiet. And Detective Howland was quite clear today.”
“She saw something, didn’t she?” Greg asked.
Bess looked at Greg and then slowly back to Winnie. “What’s he talking about?”
It was Greg who answered. “The fourth body.”
“Emily Baker,” Bess said. “They found her right across the street, didn’t they?” The details sprang to her mind in chunks. Greg pointed out the window toward the grassy lot flanked by two-story brick businesses on either side. There had once been a building there, an old family-owned hardware store—the type of business driven to extinction in the age of the big box store; Bess remembered when they finally tore it down about ten years ago.
“It’s true,” Winnie said. “I called the police. I was coming to open up the society. But they kept most of it out of the papers, including the graffiti on the building next to her head.” She paused for the drama of it. “It said, ‘Margaret Swallowed Whole. The Dragon’s Revenge.’”
“Saint Margaret,” Bess whispered.
“Exactly my first thought,” Winne said, nodding.
“Why would the police keep it out of the papers?” Bess asked.
“To weed out fake tips. If you know about the graffiti, then you’d have to have something to do with it,” Greg answered.
“Detective Howland told me he didn’t want reporters to find out I was the one who found the body because he knew they’d hound me for details I couldn’t give,” Winne explained.
Greg quietly leaned in. “There’s something I need to show you.”
“So show it.”
“Not here. It’s at my house,” Greg said.
“I am not going to your house.”
“God damn it, Amy!” he yelled.
Bess jumped and choked back a gasp.
“I don’t think you were invited,” Winnie said carefully.
“I mean ‘Bess,’” Greg sighed. “I’m sorry.”
“What is it you want to show me?” Bess asked.
“Amy’s journal. She has things in there. I think they might be clues to who abducted her.”
Winnie squinted at her. “I don’t know anything else. I’m forbidden to even be talking about this at all.”
“So show it to the police,” Bess said.
“The police didn’t care,” Greg said, his voice louder now.
“I have to admit, I wasn’t too impressed with our police force,” Winnie said. “And I’d rather keep to myself as much as possible. I like my privacy.”
“Oh well then!” Bess said. “I’m not a fucking detective. This isn’t a Hardy Boys mystery and I’m not looking for clues.” She thought back to Detective Howland and added, “They don’t need the Scooby Gang running around town trying to catch a villain.”
“But you are looking for clues, aren’t you?” Winnie asked. “It’s why you’re here.”
“Did the police care about what you told them?” Greg asked.
“Who says I told the police anything? What would I even tell them?” Bess answered.
“Look. Winnie here knows where you’re going. You’re safe. Greg Leeds. Three e’s. The house is over on Aviary Street, by the river.”
Bess’s eyes lit up. “The river?”
“Yeah,” Greg replied. “Reddington River?”
“Sounds a lot like Bevington,” Bess mumbled.
“I guess. If you’ve been drinking.”
“What about Bevington?” Winnie asked. The sharp older woman seemed wholly confused and Bess felt sorry for bringing Greg here.
“Okay, I’ll go,” Bess said.
Winnie waved her off and headed toward the back of the building, obviously finished with Bess altogether.
“You can follow me in your car. There’s a public parking lot about a block down the street,” Greg said. For a moment Bess considered that maybe he was lying, maybe he didn’t live there, maybe it was all a trick. But the lure of more clues was too much for her.
“Do you have a basement, Greg?” Bess asked.
“By the river? Hell no, it would flood.”
Greg’s home was a tiny grey Craftsman with a little concrete porch and red shutters. The front door opened into a tiny living room area on the right and a dining room and kitchen on the left. Bess let Greg enter first and remained close to the door as he walked toward a worn, navy blue couch.
“Do you want to sit down?” he asked.
“No. Just show me the journal.”
“I could get you a drink? I have Fat Tire, you like that, right?”