“There were only three packages, but I brought them all. There’s a chance it’s lost some of its potency, so you might want to steep it a little longer than you’re used to. I also threw in some aromatherapy oils I thought might help. There’s a note in the bag on how to use them.”

“I can’t tell you how much this means to me. How much do I owe you?”

“Consider it a gift,” Lizzy said, waving the offer away. “For old times’ sake.”

Penny reached across the counter to give Lizzy’s arm a squeeze. “I know you’re not staying, but it’s good to see you back in Salem Creek. And to see that you turned out so much like your grandmother. She’d be so proud of you.”

Lizzy felt a surprising lightness as she drove home. Not much had gone right since her return to Salem Creek, but bringing Penny Castle her tea had been both right and good. Such a small thing, a handful of herbs and oils. But for Penny, it wasn’t small at all. It meant relief, a place to turn when conventional medicine fell short, which to someone in chronic pain must feel like a miracle. Was that how Althea felt every day—like a miracle worker?

The question was still with her as she made a quick U-turn and pulled into the Nature’s Harvest parking lot. Evvie had said something the other night about her grandmother making peach ice cream every summer when she was a girl. It wouldn’t be homemade, but it would be a nice treat after supper.

It was early afternoon, and customers were scarce. Lizzy headed for the freezer section, grabbed a gallon of Hood peach, and made her way to the checkout. She had just put the ice cream on the conveyer belt when she looked up to find the woman working the customer service desk staring at her.

She was thin and pale, with shoulder-length hair the color of dirty dishwater. Lizzy didn’t recognize her, but her name badge read HELEN. Helen’s eyes slid away when she realized she’d been caught staring, but they soon returned, lingering brazenly this time. Lizzy held the stare, trying to decide if what she saw in the woman’s face was curiosity or aversion. Not that it mattered. She’d grown up with looks like that. All the Moons had. And yet it surprised her that one glance from a stranger could still make her want to slink away and hide.

SEVENTEEN

July 29

Lizzy breathed a sigh of relief as she left the county registrar’s office. She was nowhere near through with the red tape, but at least she’d gotten the ball rolling. It had taken days to round up and sort through Althea’s financial papers, which consisted of a battered accordion file, a pair of dog-eared ledgers, and a shoebox filled with canceled checks and loose receipts.

On the upside, in the drawer of Althea’s writing desk, she had discovered a manila envelope containing property tax documents, a declaration of trust, a beneficiary deed, and a boilerplate “Last Will and Testament.” Everything she’d need to handle the deed transfer—and apply for a mortgage if it came to that. Of course Althea had seen to it all.

She’d know more once Chuck Bundy came out and had a look around. If he ever came out. She had called his office this morning to touch base and had been dismayed to learn that he hadn’t returned to work yet. His son had undergone a second surgery, and the possibility of a third hadn’t been ruled out. She had asked that her good wishes be passed along. She could hardly begrudge the man time with his son, but she couldn’t let this drag on much longer. If he didn’t return to work soon, she’d have to find another Realtor. Maybe she’d talk to Andrew when he got back from Boston, ask if there was someone he’d recommend.

Her cell phone rang. She checked the display. Roger. It had been two days since she’d left the message about her conversations with Susan Gilman and Jenny Putnam, and she’d begun to wonder if he’d decided to steer clear of the case entirely, perhaps on the advice of his brother.

“Hey, Roger.”

“Sorry for the delay. I was out of town wrapping up an investigation when I got your message. I take it you have some thoughts to share about Heather Gilman.”

Was she imagining the impatience in his tone? Probably not. And who could blame him? He had real clients, the kind who paid for his services and didn’t try to tell him how to do his job. “I do, actually. I sat down with Susan Gilman on Monday.”

“So I gathered from your message. For the record, I sat down with her too, on numerous occasions.”

“I know. I didn’t mean . . . she’s in a different place now, Roger. She’s free to say things she wasn’t back then. Did you know she had doubts about my grandmother’s guilt?”

“I didn’t,” he said, after a brief beat of silence. “But her husband was vocal enough for both of them. The papers, the news, every day the same thing. Why hasn’t that woman been arrested yet? How many more innocent girls have to die? And not once, during any of that, did his wife contradict him.”

“Because she was scared. She told me flat out that he was a bully, and after my conversation with him, I can personally attest to it.”

“You’ve spoken to Fred Gilman?”

In her eagerness to relate her conversation with Susan, she’d apparently forgotten to mention her visit to Meadow Park. “Yes. I went to his house, but he refused to speak to me. Though I definitely got the bully vibe. I can see why she was afraid of him.”

“There was no domestic history. We checked.”

“And we both know a man doesn’t need to use his fists to intimidate his wife.”

“All right. I’ll grant you that. But there were no signs of violence in the home. No broken bones or black eyes, no frequent ER visits. Just the normal bumps and bruises. You’re saying she thinks it was him?”

“No. Not exactly.”

“Then what are you saying?”

The impatience was back, his tone brisk and snappish. Lizzy pulled into the first parking lot she came to—Stay-Brite Dry Cleaners—and put the car in park. She needed him to hear her out, so he’d have a clear picture of life in the Gilman house. “I’m saying there were things going on back then that no one knew about. Creepy stuff. Like a father giving his fifteen-year-old daughter a box of condoms without telling her mother. Heather was running wild, skipping school and drinking. But Mr. Gilman didn’t want to hear it—and he didn’t want anyone else to hear it either. Especially the police. That has to set off some bells.”

“You just said his own wife doesn’t think he did it.”

“She doesn’t. But wives aren’t always objective, even under normal circumstances. And things in that house were far from normal.”

“Sounds like you think it was him.”

“I certainly think it’s possible. Susan said her husband had a kind of obsession with the girls. With Heather especially. But everyone was so convinced it was Althea that no one else was even considered.”

Roger blew out a sigh. “That isn’t true. Just because we didn’t broadcast our every move doesn’t mean we weren’t doing our jobs. I can assure you we looked at him. In fact, we looked at both of them. Both had alibis for the night the girls went missing. Fred was seen by several neighbors out in the garage, working on an old Mustang he was restoring, and it was Susan’s turn to host her card club’s weekly canasta game, which didn’t break up until almost midnight. That’s when she realized the girls weren’t home. Unfortunately, she waited almost five hours before calling it in.”

“Because Fred wouldn’t let her call sooner. He didn’t want the police involved, and still doesn’t, apparently. You don’t find that odd?”

“His daughters are dead, Lizzy. Murdered. I can’t say I blame him for not wanting to dredge it all up again. That kind of pain never leaves you.”

Lizzy bit her lip, recalling the death of his wife and son. “No. I suppose not.”

“There’s also the possibility that this is some twisted revenge scenario on Susan Gilman’s part.”

“Revenge scenario?” It was a possibility Lizzy had never considered.

“Years in an emotionally abusive marriage, taking crap from a man who puts his daughters ahead of his wife. She leaves him, tries to put it all behind her. And then, out of the blue, you show up asking all sorts of questions. Bam. She sees a way to pay her husband back, by hinting that he might have had some sort of fixation with his daughters.”

“Sounds like a bad movie plot.”

“If you’re going to pursue the dysfunctional-family angle, you have to look at it from all angles. You can’t pick up one end of the stick without picking up the other.”

Lizzy considered this. No doubt he’d seen his share of acts over the years, but her gut—and her nose—told her Susan Gilman’s pain was real. “She wasn’t faking it, Roger. No one could fake that.”

“At the risk of sounding jaded, people are capable of faking all sorts of things.”

“Maybe. But not in this case. If anything, she blames herself for not being strong enough to stand up to her husband the night the girls went missing. If she had, maybe things would have ended differently—for the girls as well as Althea. And maybe there would have been more than one suspect on your list.”