“You don’t have to decide now,” Wayne said. “The estate has to go through probate, and that can take months. By spring, things may look different.”
“That’s true.”
Lionel cleared his throat. “I should get to work,” he said, handing me an envelope.
“So should we,” Derek agreed and put an arm around my shoulders. “Come along, Avery.”
Wayne nodded. I thanked Lionel, and the three of us headed up the street toward the end of the cul-de-sac again. By the time we got to our own property, we heard Lionel’s van start up and drive away, backfiring as it slowed to a stop at the intersection with Primrose. Wayne was telling us about driving Ricky Swanson home last night, or rather, back to the dorm at Barnham, where he lived. “He took me up to the computer lab to show me the facial reconstruction he and Josh did of Holly. It’s a pretty good likeness, isn’t it?”
“Good enough that Brandon recognized her,” I said, fiddling with the envelope Lionel had given me. “Josh says Ricky is brilliant when it comes to computers. Did he explain why he acted so strangely at dinner last night?”
Wayne shook his head. “We talked mostly about Pittsburgh. I’ve been there a few times, for law enforcement conventions and the like. And it’s not like I could interrogate the poor kid, you know. He’s not a suspect in any of this. What’s that?” He indicated the envelope.
I turned it over. “Just an old photograph of Patrick Murphy. He and Lionel were friends when they were small. I’ve never seen a picture of Patrick, so I thought I’d ask Lionel if he had one.”
“Well, let’s see,” Derek said.
I ripped open the envelope and pulled out the photo, which showed two small boys grinning at the camera, from what I realized were the front steps behind me. One was small and scrawny, with Lionel’s reddish brown hair and pale eyes. The other was stockier, solid, with darker hair, electric blue eyes, and ruddy cheeks. He was dressed in a striped shirt and jeans, and even in comparison to the grainy newsprint of Peggy Murphy, I could see that he looked like his mother. I could also see that he looked like someone else.
“Speak of the devil,” Derek said softly. I nodded.
19
“It doesn’t prove anything,” Derek said, for at least the third or fourth time since Wayne had left. “Just because Ricky Swanson is really Patrick Murphy, it doesn’t prove anything. He probably took his aunt and uncle’s last name when he went to live with them. It makes sense that he’d want to forget about being a Murphy, after what his father did.”
I nodded. “Especially if he went to live with his mother’s sister. Remember what he said yesterday? His aunt didn’t go to Barnham, but her sister did? And his aunt’s sister is…”
“His mother. Or his other aunt. That doesn’t prove anything, either.”
“I guess not,” I admitted. “He has a connection to this house, though. What if he came back here four years ago, and Holly saw him, and he killed her? His father was a killer; maybe it runs in the family. Or maybe he just didn’t want anyone to know he was here. So he killed her and buried her under the house. Who’d know better than he how safe it was? He owned the place!”
“But then why sell it to us?” Derek objected. I bit my lip.
“I didn’t think about that. Maybe he thought the body would be gone by now? Rotted away?”
“Maybe.”
“Or maybe he just changed his mind, and regretted selling the place to us, and wanted it back. Maybe he’s the one who rigged the footsteps and the screaming to scare us away. And maybe, when we found the bones, he figured he’d better get his ghost setup out of here before the police found it. So he came back that night to take down the speakers or wires or whatnot, and Venetia saw him. She lived here seventeen years ago; she’d probably recognize him.”
“And then he panicked and killed her?” Derek tilted his head to the side and considered. A lock of hair fell over his forehead, and my fingers itched to brush it away, but they were sticky with glue, so I refrained.
“I guess he might have,” he agreed after a moment. “If it runs in the family. And she might have felt safe inviting him in. He was little Patrick Murphy, after all.”
We were in the back bedroom, where Derek was preparing the teak dresser-removing the bottoms of the top two drawers and taking off the back panel-for plumbing. Meanwhile, I had appropriated one of the panels he had discarded and was busy adhering pieces of crumpled grocery bags to it to show him what the walls in the bathroom could look like if we could agree to brown paper bag them. Or more likely, craft paper them, since rolls of brown craft paper are a lot easier to work with than grocery bags.
“It explains what he was doing in here the other day, too,” I said, while I worked. “And why the papers were on the floor this morning. It wasn’t Brandon at all. Ricky heard me talk about the boxes and where they were. That’s why he made straight for the master bedroom when we got into the house. I thought he was looking for the second bathroom, but he was really looking for the boxes. He may not have anything to remember his parents or grandparents by. So he started looking through them. And of course he got emotional; who wouldn’t? So when Paige came to look for him, he stuffed the papers back into the box in a hurry and locked himself in the bathroom so she wouldn’t see him cry.”
Derek nodded, pensively. “That explains the other day. It also explains last night. If he didn’t know about his mother and Mr. Nickerson, it must have been a shock finding out like that.”
“Very much so. No wonder he looked like he’d seen a ghost.” I smoothed another crumpled piece of brown paper over the wallpaper paste.
“It still doesn’t prove anything, though,” Derek warned. “Just that he didn’t want anyone in Waterfield to know that he’s really Patrick Murphy. And I don’t know that I can blame him for that.”
I shook my head. Me, either. “Take a look at this.” I lifted the papered panel to an upright position, the better for him to see how it would look on the wall. “What do you think? Once it’s dry, we can paint it, and it’ll have a leather or suede look. Especially if we brush a lighter or darker color over the top.”
“I’m sure that’ll be fine,” Derek said.
I blinked. “Just like that?” I’d expected more of a fight, to be honest.
He shrugged. “Why not? It’s interesting. And it’ll look good with the teak. So you want two white basins sunk into the top of this thing, and a white commode, and everything else brown and blue, is that it?”
I nodded. “It’ll be dark, and kind of masculine, although I can decorate it to minimize that once we’re ready to put the house on the market. I think it’s the best solution, if we have to keep the brown and navy tile.”
“Sounds good to me. What about the other bathroom?”
“There, I was thinking of something lighter. White tile around the tub and on the floor, and maybe halfway up the walls, too. A vessel sink on a stand-that Fiesta ware bowl of Kate’s that I used to make mashed potatoes last night would look great-and a funky shower curtain, to pull the whole thing together. Anyone who moves in here will probably have their own, but it’ll look good while we’re showing the place. And I know how to make my own, did you know? Peek-a-boo shower curtains, with clear cutouts.”
“Sounds interesting,” Derek said with a grin. I grinned back.
“I’ll make one for you for Christmas, how’s that?”
“I was hoping you’d make one for yourself, but I guess that’d be OK, too. C’mere, Tink.” He reached a hand down and pulled me to my feet. Once there, he put his arms around me. “It’s been a crazy couple of days, hasn’t it?” he said into my hair.
I nodded, cheek against his chest. “Totally.”
His voice was a low rumble against my ear. “Are you reconsidering the idea of renovating for a living? It might be hard getting rid of this house once we’re done with it.”