“Had any what?” Daphne asked.
Ashlee looked at her as if she thought Daphne might be joking again. Then she realized the new governess really didn’t understand her innuendo.
“Sex,” Ashlee told her. “She’s never had sex.” Suddenly a smile stretched across the young woman’s face. “Oh, I forgot. You grew up in a convent.”
Daphne felt her cheeks flush. “I’m not always so naïve,” she promised. “But ... I guess there are some things I have to learn.”
“Don’t worry about it, sweetie.” Ashlee smiled kindly. “So ... if I can be so bold—should I assume you’ve never had any either?”
Daphne’s cheeks burned hotter. She just shook her head.
Ashlee smiled. “That’ll change. I saw the way Donovan was eyeing you last night.”
“But he’s engaged!”
“That’s never stopped him before,” Ashlee quipped.
Daphne drew her shoulders up. “Well, it would certainly stop me.”
“Good for you, sweetie. But I didn’t necessarily mean Donovan. I just meant I saw how he looked at you. You’re an extremely pretty girl. I’m sure lots of guys will look at you the same way now that you’re out of the convent.”
Daphne just laughed awkwardly and looked away.
“In fact, I’ll bet even on your way over here, you attracted some attention from the male citizens of Point Woebegone.”
Daphne looked at her. Could she possibly know that Gregory Winston had given her a ride? Could the sheriff have mentioned it? Given that the sheriff was coming by later today, Daphne figured it might be wise to admit it. And surely if there was a sympathetic ear in this house, it was Ashlee’s.
“Actually,” she said, “not that there was anything to it”—was there?—“I did get a ride from the train station to the inn from a gentleman who said he knew Mr. Witherspoon.”
Ashlee’s eyes twinkled. “You were holding back on us last night, Daphne. You didn’t tell us this part.”
“It’s just that—well, I didn’t want to add any further distress after breaking the news about Maggie.”
“How could you cause distress by telling us a man had given you ride?”
“Well, the man indicated ...” Daphne’s voice wavered. What exactly had Gregory said? “He implied that Mr. Witherspoon wouldn’t approve of seeing me arrive at Witherswood in his car.”
Ashlee leaned in close. “What was this man’s name?”
“Gregory Winston.”
Ashlee laughed out loud, harder and harsher than her usual laugh, a sound like breaking glass.
“Gregory Winston! Indeed, Pete would have been fit to be tied if he saw you drive up to Witherswood in Gregory’s car.” She lowered her voice. “Though I sure wouldn’t have. I think Gregory is dreamy. So gorgeous. Don’t you think?”
Daphne blushed again. “Why doesn’t Mr. Witherspoon like him? I assume it has something to do with business. Gregory said that Mr. Witherspoon owned half the town, and he owned the other half.”
“That’s part of it,” Ashlee acknowledged. “Gregory keeps trying to buy properties from under Pete, keeps trying to woo away our employees at the cannery and the fishing fleet and the various restaurants we own on the coast.” She sat back as a plump woman came by and cleared away their plates and freshened their coffees. “But that’s not all of it. Their history goes back a lot further than that.”
They were silent until the server had finished brushing the crumbs from the table and then trundled away toward the kitchen, leaving them alone on the terrace.
“Of course, this all predates me by many, many years,” Ashlee continued. “But as I understand it, Gregory’s father once lived and worked at Witherswood. He was the groundskeeper. In fact, I believe that Gregory was born on the estate and spent much of his youth here.” She paused, her eyes moving off to look beyond the cliffs. “Then ... well, the tragedies happened.”
Daphne thought she knew what Ashlee meant by the “tragedies,” but she held her tongue.
Ashlee looked over at her. “I told Pete he was wrong not to tell you the history of this house before you made the decision to come here or not.” She smiled kindly. “Ben informed me that he told you about Pete’s father and the terrible things he did.”
“Yes, he told me,” Daphne said, and shuddered again as the memory of those horrors intruded onto what had been, until this point, such a pleasant morning.
“He was right to. He felt that Pete and I should know that he’d broken the news to you. Pete will be angry at first, because he felt you should only learn about it in time, and that he should have been the one to tell you. But I think he’ll also feel relieved that Ben took that terrible responsibility from him.”
“It must be so horrible for you all to live with that knowledge,” Daphne said.
Ashlee looked at her with cold eyes. “The legacy of that monster lives on in everything we do in this house. The family can’t seem to escape him.”
“Christopher knows all about it,” Daphne told her. “Last night, I visited him, and he seemed to take some enjoyment in revealing the details.”
“Of course he knows,” Ashlee said. “Pete is a fool if he thinks he can keep the knowledge from him. Pete doesn’t understand we live in a world now where secrets aren’t as easily kept. Please, Daphne, don’t let whatever Christopher said trouble you. He’s a very disturbed boy. If I had my way, he’d be in a mental hospital somewhere. The boy needs treatment.” She sipped her coffee. “I’m sure that’s why he hates me, because he knows I think he should be sent away to be helped.”
“Hate is a strong word.”
Ashlee laughed. “You’ve met him. Is it not accurate in his case?”
Daphne sighed. “He does seem to have a tremendous amount of anger bottled up inside him. But I guess ever since his mother died ...”
Ashlee set her coffee cup down hard on the table. “Sweet, sainted Peggy. Everyone loved Peggy. And of course I can never be as good as Peggy.” She laughed, that harsh sound again. “Except Pete. Pete thinks I’m every bit as good!”
This new side of her friend disturbed Daphne. Not that Ashlee’s resentment wasn’t in some ways justified. She was being judged by people who distrusted her, after all, people who actively disliked her and who compared her to the memory of a woman who had died. It must be very difficult to live in a house filled with such attitudes. But Ashlee’s harshness in the face of such grievances was a marked contrast to her usual sunny, cheery disposition. It left Daphne uneasy.
Just at that moment, they were joined on the terrace by Ben and Gabriel. Ben was dressed in riding clothes and Gabe was, as usual, hunched over in his wheelchair, keeping his eyes averted from anyone else.
“Good morning, ladies!” Ben announced. “A beautiful autumn day! Would either of you like to join me for a ride around the estate?”
“That’s very tempting,” Ashlee said, “but I have a million items on my to-do list today.”
“I have to begin lessons with Christopher,” Daphne said. “Besides, I don’t know how to ride.”
“I’d love to teach you,” Ben said, giving her a wide grin and a wink. “Some morning when my cousin has a day off from his studies.”
Daphne smiled, and felt that tingly little feeling in her chest again.
Ben grabbed a cup of coffee and headed off into the yard toward the stables.
Ashlee was smirking at Daphne, watching her eyes follow Ben across the grass.
“Sweetie, you’d be wiser to stick with Donovan,” Ashlee told her.
Daphne looked over at her startled. “What?”
Ashlee’s smirk widened. “Donovan might have a fiancée, but at least he plays on your team.”
“I don’t understand.”
Ashlee let out that whooping laugh—the lighter, happier one. “Of course you don’t! Ben’s gay, sweetie! I assume even a convent girl knows what gay means!”
“Oh,” Daphne said, her cheeks flushing yet again.
“I know,” Ashlee said, shaking her head. “Handsome, charming, all-around good guy, but ...” Her voice trailed off. “He’ll make some guy a great husband, but for you, sweetie, he’s going to be just a really good friend.”
“That’s ... that’s all I had in mind.” Daphne looked away in embarrassment. She noticed that Gabriel had wheeled himself off to the far side of the terrace, where he sat watching his brother mount his horse.
“Poor Gabe,” Ashlee whispered, leaning toward Daphne. “They say he was a terrific horseman in his day.”
Daphne eyed the young man in the wheelchair. Gabriel’s gaze was fixed on Ben far off across the grounds. Ben and his chestnut-colored horse suddenly bolted across the lawn, galloping along the cliffs. Daphne’s heart broke for Gabriel. It was obvious he so wished he could still ride. She thought about asking Ashlee what kind of accident had left Gabriel wheelchair-bound. But Ashlee was standing now. Their breakfast was over. Daphne realized it was time she got to work. She had a meeting with Mr. Witherspoon at ten to go over Christopher’s studies. And then, at noon, the first official sit-down with the boy—a moment Daphne was not looking forward to. At all.
But one question still lingered. As she and Ashlee headed into the house, passing through the dining room and into the great foyer, Daphne decided to inquire about one point that had gone unexplained at breakfast.
“Ashlee,” she said quietly, after making certain no one was around. “There’s just one other thing... .”
“What’s that, sweetie?”
Daphne hesitated, then proceeded. “You said that Gregory Winston lived here until the time of the ... the tragedies. What happened then? What caused him and his father to leave Witherswood?”
“I thought you knew,” Ashlee said. “I see that Ben didn’t tell you everything.”
She motioned Daphne over to a small niche beside a grandfather’s clock. There they had a modicum of privacy.
“You see,” Ashlee said, her voice dropping to a whisper, “Gregory Winston’s father—and his mother too—were the last two victims of Pete Witherspoon Senior. Their throats were cut on the very spot we’re standing now!”
SIX
Daphne had barely recovered from the news when the sound of the heavy knocker on the front door reverberated throughout the foyer.
“That would be the sheriff,” Ashlee said, as a tall, skeletal man walked in from the study to answer the door. “And that would be Boris,” Ashlee added as an aside to Daphne. “Our butler. I don’t think you met him last night.”
Daphne thought Boris wasn’t that far off from the image of Lurch she’d expected to answer the door last night. She was glad it had been Ashlee. Boris was gaunt and gray, with cadaverous cheeks and deep-set eyes. She wasn’t sure if it was the sight of him or the news that Gregory Winston’s parents had been murdered right where she was standing that made her suddenly start trembling from head to toe.
“Show the sheriff into the parlor, Boris,” Ashlee was saying. “Hello, Sheriff, how are you?”
“Well, under the circumstances, Mrs. Witherspoon, I’ve been better,” he said. Daphne remembered his twitchy white moustache.
“I understand,” she said. “We’re all devastated here. I’ll get my husband. You don’t need anyone else in the house, do you?”
“Not at the moment. Just some perfunctory questions. You know I hate to disturb Mr. Witherspoon with this, but it has to be done.”
“We understand.”
The sheriff noticed Daphne. “Though it might be good to speak with you again, Miss May,” he said. “Since you were there.”
“If you insist,” Daphne said, trying to get her trembling under control.
“Listen, Sheriff, one favor before I go get Pete,” Ashlee said. “Just a simple request, really. Daphne and I aren’t mentioning that Gregory Winston gave her a ride last night. It was all completely innocent. You know how that would upset Pete, and Daphne’s just started here. You don’t want to make her job any more difficult than it already is, do you? Is that okay?”
Daphne wanted to throw her arms around Ashlee and kiss her. The sheriff nodded. “I don’t see why we have to mention that detail,” he said.
“You’re a sweetheart,” Ashlee said, and bounded up the stairs to get her husband.
The butler had come up behind them without making a sound. “You can wait in here, sir,” Boris said, in a voice that sounded far too high and squeaky to be coming out of such a ghoulish face. He gestured with one extremely long arm and a deathly white hand toward the parlor.
The sheriff headed inside. Daphne figured she might as well join him, and get this interview over with. She didn’t know why she had to go through this again. She’d already told him everything she knew. But she headed into the parlor and sat down on the sofa. The sheriff walked over to the French doors that looked out onto the cliffs, flipped out his cell phone, and began speaking to some deputy, telling him he was “on point” and would be “back soon.” As he did so, there was movement off to the side of the room, and Daphne looked up. Old Boris was conferring with a much shorter, much stouter man. Together they looked like—what was that old comedy team?—Laurel and Hardy. One tall and lean, the other short and fat. And to Daphne’s dismay, both men kept looking over at her.
Then came the sound of footsteps on the great staircase, and through the lobby came Mr. Witherspoon, in a gold satin smoking jacket and a gold ascot tie. He was striding as quickly as possible, which for a man with obvious arthritic pain, was rather impressive. Ashlee followed behind. The sheriff flipped his phone shut.
“Sheriff Patterson,” Mr. Witherspoon said in greeting.
“Pete, I’m sorry to have to come up here, but you know how it is.”
“Of course.” The old man eyed Daphne. “Why is my son’s governess here?”
“Well, since she was at the crime scene, I thought I might get her story again.”
Pete arched a white eyebrow. “I thought she gave you a statement last evening.”
“I did, Mr. Witherspoon,” Daphne said. “I’m not sure what more I can—”
The sheriff raised a hand. “Please, Miss May, I just want to point out something that you said last night and see what Pete makes of it.”
Mr. Witherspoon looked over at Daphne. His hard eyes had softened, and he looked sad. “I owe you an apology, my dear,” he said. “I understand you have only just learned the parts of our family history that cause us all such pain. I should have informed you myself. I would have, in time, but this horrible thing has forced it to the surface before I was prepared to explain it all to you.”
“That’s all right, sir,” Daphne said.
The sheriff’s mustache twitched. “So she didn’t know anything about your father’s crimes before she came here?”
“That is correct,” Pete told him.
“So,” the sheriff continued, “to be clear, she had no idea about any details of the murders last night when she was at the inn, and found the body?”
“No,” Daphne said, answering for herself this time. “I hadn’t even met anyone here yet. I had just arrived. I knew nothing!”
It seemed so long ago. In such a short time so much had happened. So much had she learned. So much horror ...
“Well, then, what you said to me last night, Miss May,” Sheriff Patterson said, pulling a small notebook from his front shirt pocket and glancing down into it, “becomes even more curious.”
“What is it that I said?”
“Yes,” Mr. Witherspoon said, his voice dropping to a low growl. “What was it that she said to you?”
The sheriff looked from Daphne over to the old man. “She told me that just before she found the body, she had seen a clown sitting in one of the booths.”
“Dear God!” Mr. Witherspoon croaked, and grabbed the side of a chair. Ashlee helped him sit down.
“It’s true then?” Daphne asked in a small voice. “The killer ... dressed as a clown when he killed his victims?”
“He did indeed,” Sheriff Patterson said. “Seems to me, Pete, that what we may have here—and I stress ‘may have,’ because it’s too soon to know—is a copycat killer. Someone who’s playing off the terrible memory of what happened here in Point Woebegone twenty-five years ago.”
“No,” Pete said, covering his face in his hands.
“It’ll be okay, sweetheart,” Ashlee said, kissing her husband on one of his sunken, wrinkled cheeks.
“I have my people on high alert, stationed all across town, on the lookout for anything or anyone suspicious,” Sheriff Patterson said. “And I’ll post a couple of deputies down the hill from Witherswood, just to be on the safe side.”
“You don’t think anyone would come up here, do you?” Ashlee asked.
The sheriff shrugged. “I don’t have any reason to think so, Mrs. Witherspoon. But if what this young lady says is true, if there really was some freak dressed as a clown in the inn last night, then we have to consider the possibility that someone is trying to somehow evoke the murders that took place here a generation ago.”
“Why would anyone want to do that?” Pete croaked, his voice ragged with pain and grief and memory.
“There are a lot of sickos out there, Pete,” the sheriff told him.
“Of course,” Ashlee said, trying to look on the bright side, “there is always the possibility that what Daphne saw was just a strange and terrible coincidence.”
“Meaning?” the sheriff asked.
“Meaning that maybe the clown she saw was some guy on his way to or from a kid’s birthday party, and it was all an innocent coincidence that he stopped in at the inn on the same night someone killed poor Maggie.”
“Yes,” Daphne said hopefully, grateful to Ashlee for voicing the possibility. Even though she knew it was absurd, she couldn’t help but feel responsible somehow for bringing the family such pain and distress, since she was the only one who had seen the clown and she was the one who had brought the news to their attention. “Maybe,” Daphne said, “the clown I saw has nothing whatsoever to do with any of this.”
“Maybe,” the sheriff said, but he didn’t seem convinced. The way Pete sat in his chair, rubbing his forehead with his gnarled hand, suggested he wasn’t convinced either.
“Well, I feel better knowing there are deputies keeping an eye on the house,” Ashlee said. “Is there anything else you need from us this morning, Sheriff?”
“Not unless anyone here has any information that might shed some light on things,” he said. “Maybe some of the others ... ?”
“We discussed it last night, all of us,” Pete said, looking over at the sheriff with tired old eyes. “No one had any clue as to who or what might be doing this, or why.”
“Maybe I should speak with them... .”
“No,” Pete said curtly. “There is nothing to be learned from them.”
“All right,” Sheriff Patterson agreed. “But if you learn of anything, let me know as soon as possible. The killer, if he is really trying to copycat your father, might get in touch with you somehow. Or someone else in the family. I’d suggest you all be on the alert for anything unusual.”
“Of course we will be,” Ashlee said.
“And you, too, Miss May,” the sheriff added. “If he was aware that you saw him last night and knows that you were on your way here, he may try to contact you in some way.”
“Me?” Daphne asked, suddenly terrified. “You think he might try to contact me? Why?”
“Who knows? We just all have to be on alert. I’d suggest that when you leave the grounds of Witherswood, you never travel alone. Always go into town with someone. At least until we better understand what we are dealing with.”
Daphne felt new fear rush through her. Was this what her life in this house was going to be like from now on? Constant terror?
“Sheriff,” Ashlee said, “we will do anything we can to help you. I know I speak for the entire family. But I’m also speaking for myself, because you know Maggie was an old friend of mine. I want to see her killer brought to justice.”
“And you told my deputy on the phone that you knew of no one who had any grudge against her, no one from her past who would want to harm her?”
“No one,” Ashlee said. “Maggie was a doll. Everyone loved her.” She paused, and Daphne saw the sadness cross her face. “Of course, she and I had been out of touch for the last year or so, which means I can’t speak to whatever might have been going on in her life more recently than that.”
The sheriff was nodding. “All right. I guess I’ve taken up enough of your time. Keep me informed of anything you hear or see, even if you think it’s irrelevant or insignificant. I’ll be the judge of what’s important. All right?”
Pete nodded. He didn’t stand or speak as the sheriff headed out of the parlor. Ashlee walked him to the door.
“Miss May,” Pete said when they were alone, his voice cracking.
“Yes, sir?”
“We might as well speak now about Christopher’s studies.”
“Yes, of course.”
He looked at her. Daphne’s fears dissipated as she looked upon Pete’s face, which was filled with so much sadness. As distressing as all this was to her, it was far more difficult on Pete. Taking a long breath and then exhaling slowly, he spoke of his son’s struggles in school. Christopher was a very bright boy, he told Daphne, but ever since his mother’s death he had withdrawn, become antisocial. He acted out at school, got into fights, caused trouble. Pete had felt it was best to have him homeschooled. Christopher had also, his father admitted, begun finding out bits and pieces of the family scandal, and Pete suspected this, too, had caused the boy to act out.
“If I may, sir,” Daphne said, not wanting to interrupt but feeling she had no choice, “I think he’s discovered more than bits and pieces.”
She told him about her encounter with the boy the previous night. Pete shook his head in a mix of anger and weariness.
“He is incorrigible,” the old man said. “I’m sorry for his behavior. I’m not surprised, however, that he has learned all that I wanted to keep from him. When the boy sets his mind to something, there is no stopping him.”
Standing with some difficulty, Pete produced his son’s academic records. Daphne perused them. It was clear from these reports that Christopher was indeed very bright, though his emotional problems kept him from fully applying himself. She went over the curriculum that Pete, along with Christopher’s former teachers, had put together. She had been given an outline when Pete made the job offer through Mother Angela, and Daphne felt she could handle the curriculum. The academic subjects, that was. She would have no trouble teaching and tutoring the boy in mathematics, history, English composition, and science. But she knew Christopher needed more guidance than that.
His father agreed. “But what more can I do? I try to talk with him, but he rebuffs me. He is hostile to Ashlee, thinking she is trying to replace his mother, so he is hostile to me.” He sighed. “My nephew Ben suggested that I have the boy speak to a counselor, perhaps even a psychologist. I am reluctant to do so, however, for the idea of a stranger coming into my home and inquiring about my family is abhorrent to me.”
“And yet,” Daphne said, “you brought me here, and I am a stranger.”
He looked over at her. There was something in his eyes, but whatever thoughts were in Pete’s mind he kept to himself.