The Unkindness of Ravens by M. Hilliard (readera ebook reader .txt) 📗

young drowning victim, Carol. Douglas was a common enough name, but it would be too much of a coincidence if it weren’t the same woman. DOB/DOD likely meant “date of birth” and “date of death.” No idea why they were important, but I could get them through the Social Security Death Index in one of the genealogy databases. No remote access, so I made a note and moved on.

“Quinn, MD” was next. Mary Alice’s husband was a doctor, though he had retired a few years earlier. “Salvatore Cosmopoulos” was no one I knew, though I had a feeling I should. Most of the other names were familiar; I guessed they were library patrons. I did a web search on all of them, noting ages and addresses and whether or not they were on social media. At first glance I found nothing in common among them. I’d delve deeper if I had to but I wanted to keep working through the list. Social networks were a rabbit warren of information, most of which was meaningless unless you were looking for something specific.

“James Family Trust—deets.” James was Felicity’s maiden name. Next on the list was “Douglas wills? Ask G.” Beneath that were two strings of numbers of equal length. There was a line break both above and below these four items, as though Joanna had grouped them deliberately.

The trust might be where Julia Wainwright came in. She was too young to have been involved in any will made by Susan Douglas, but her firm might have handled it. Unlikely they would share the information even if they had. The “Ask G.” bothered me. Maybe this is what Joanna was referring to in her last note to me—digging up the details of a decades old will. But why me?

Probated wills were a matter of public record, but to my knowledge not available online the way deeds and mortgages were. If you wanted a look, you had to snoop the old-fashioned way—in person. A quick web search told me where. Surrogate’s Court was in downtown Albany. Not a trip Joanna had recently made, I thought, and not one I could make until I had my car. Though any large bequests would have made the local paper, and would have to be recorded in official records, so we were back to Millicent or downtown. Though it would be easier for me to go through the archives or see what the Historical Society had than it would have been for Joanna. I could always make up a genealogy request, even if it required a fake e-mail address.

There was one other way of finding out how someone had disposed of their assets, particularly in a small town. Gossip was not as accurate in the details, but included underlying motivations in a way court documents did not. This would be tricky. Not the kind of questions I could ask, as there was no reason I should have any knowledge of the Douglas family. Dory and Mary Alice might know something, or know someone who did. They could come up with a reasonable excuse for asking, but if this had any bearing on the murder it could put them in danger. Henri was a possibility but would also be at risk. I would have to tread carefully here.

By midnight, my body was stiff and aching, my eyes watered, and I was barely getting a glimmer of what Joanna was after. She was researching two different deaths, Carol Douglas and Susan Douglas. Almost certainly mother and daughter, they’d died decades apart, one in a tragic accident and the other apparently of old age. Some of the websites and addresses were either thrown in at random or had some connection I couldn’t follow. Random facts teased at the edges of my tired mind. I stared at the printout and my notes, willing something to click. All I got was a vague sense of unease. All in the small details. But which ones?

I needed a Pensieve. Albus Dumbledore’s office was out of reach, and I doubted I’d find one in Horatio Ravenscroft’s study. Perhaps if I closed my eyes and tapped my mechanical pencil against my temple? Crazy. Did I have a better idea?

I leaned back and closed my eyes. I tapped the eraser end against my head, and waited for inspiration.

“I know it’s here somewhere.” Ravens flying over the Kill. The Purloined Letter. “Don’t you think this looks a little staged?” The Chinese Shawl. Headless ghost. Child drowns. “We know all the secret paths.” Artichoke squares. Keys. Pizza.

I was aware of a gnawing in my stomach. I scribbled down everything that had come to mind, and shut down my computer. I had a snack and got ready for bed, convinced I’d be sound asleep in minutes and that everything would make more sense in the morning. I stared at the ceiling, seeing fantastic swirling shapes in the dark, my sense of unease growing. It was all in the small details. Secret paths, parallel paths, all leading to the same place, a dark, cold place.

I sat up in bed and listened. The only sounds were usual ones—the murmur of the sleeping trees as the breeze disturbed their rest, the rustle of leaves as predator and prey went about their business, a series of faint warning yips in the distance.

Coyote.

I padded through the darkness to the kitchen. Returning to my desk, I folded my notes around Joanna’s flash drive and tucked them into a snack-sized Ziploc bag. The drive with the copied file went into the middle of a purse pack of tissues, which went into a second bag. I found some cough drops, tucked them in with the tissues, and pushed it all to the bottom of my tote. I returned to bed, checked the charge on my cell phone, and put the first baggy under it. Tomorrow, both would go in my pocket.

From now on, the evidence went where I went.

Chapter Sixteen

The weather cooperated for the memorial, which went smoothly.