discovered, Portman was looking for the rope or cord or whatever it was that had been used to strangle Faye Harrison. It had not been wound around Faye’s neck, nor discarded anywhere in the vicinity of Manitou Cave. An exhaustive search of the trail that led back to Riverwood turned up nothing. “The killer must have taken it with him,” Portman told Harold Crow in the last interview he granted on the investigation. “Or thrown it into the river. In any case, we think it’ll turn up eventually.”
But the rope had never turned up. Nor would it have mattered much if it had. At least as far as the case Portman was building against Jake Mosley was concerned. For on September 28, 1946, one week after his release, Mosley was found dead in his boardinghouse room. An autopsy report determined his death the result of “natural causes.”
CHAPTER 9
A nd so no one had ever been arrested, tried, or convicted for the murder of Faye Harrison. Nor had any suspect other than Jake Mosley ever emerged. In addition, no theory of the crime had ever been offered save the one held by Sheriff Gerard, that it was the result of a “botched rape,” Mosley having accosted Faye Harrison in the woods, then panicked and murdered her. He’d had both the motive and the opportunity, according to Sheriff Gerard, while no one else had had either one. “Jake Mosley killed Faye Harrison,” Gerard declared the day following Mosley’s death, “and he has been executed for it.”
But if this were so, why had Mrs. Harrison never been able to believe it?
That was the question Graves most had on his mind when he returned to his cottage later that same afternoon.
Saunders stood at the rear door of the Volvo, now dressed in his casual clothes.
“Ready to go, Mr. Graves?” he asked as Graves approached.He opened the door. “The Waves is just on the other side of Britanny Falls.”
On the way, Saunders spoke briefly of Mrs. Harrison. She’d been an old-fashioned sort of teacher, he said, a “real stickler” for grammar and punctuation. From there, he’d gone on to the history of Riverwood. The estate had taken many years to build, he said, and through it all Warren Davies had remained sternly vigilant. “He kept an eye on the details of that house like he kept one on the details of his business.”
“What was Mr. Davies’ business?” Graves asked.
“Oh, he had a finger in lots of things. Construction. Pharmaceuticals. Loads of real estate. Mines too. Gold. Silver. Diamonds. Mr. Davies had an interest in them all.”
Saunders was still cataloguing the sources of the Davies fortune ten minutes later when they reached The Waves.
The building was considerably grander than Graves expected. A large Victorian house complete with gabled roof and wide wrap-around porch, it had no doubt once been the residence of a wealthy family, inhabited by the wife and children of a prominent local banker or landowner, as Graves conceived of it, and filled with the heavy mahogany furniture common to that era, wood so dark it seemed to pull light from the air around it. Whenever he imagined a ghost, he imagined it in such a house, an airy shape gliding effortlessly among the ponderous chairs and tables, always a girl with long chestnut hair, almost human save for the eerie translucence of her body, almost alive save for the dead look in her eyes.
Now, as he moved up the cement walkway that led to the rest home, Graves wondered if Mrs. Harrison ever saw Faye as he sometimes saw Gwen, a figure moving toward him, her long hair falling loosely over her shoulders, her arms lifted pleadingly, whispering the same words,
Oh, please, please, please …
She was sitting in a wooden rocker when he entered her room, facing the window, her back to him. The room was compact, with only a narrow bed, a mirrored bureau, and a chest of drawers. The walls were plain and white. There were no photographs. Instead, a large crucifix hung over the bed, and a print of the Virgin
But the rope had never turned up. Nor would it have mattered much if it had. At least as far as the case Portman was building against Jake Mosley was concerned. For on September 28, 1946, one week after his release, Mosley was found dead in his boardinghouse room. An autopsy report determined his death the result of “natural causes.”
CHAPTER 9
A nd so no one had ever been arrested, tried, or convicted for the murder of Faye Harrison. Nor had any suspect other than Jake Mosley ever emerged. In addition, no theory of the crime had ever been offered save the one held by Sheriff Gerard, that it was the result of a “botched rape,” Mosley having accosted Faye Harrison in the woods, then panicked and murdered her. He’d had both the motive and the opportunity, according to Sheriff Gerard, while no one else had had either one. “Jake Mosley killed Faye Harrison,” Gerard declared the day following Mosley’s death, “and he has been executed for it.”
But if this were so, why had Mrs. Harrison never been able to believe it?
That was the question Graves most had on his mind when he returned to his cottage later that same afternoon.
Saunders stood at the rear door of the Volvo, now dressed in his casual clothes.
“Ready to go, Mr. Graves?” he asked as Graves approached.He opened the door. “The Waves is just on the other side of Britanny Falls.”
On the way, Saunders spoke briefly of Mrs. Harrison. She’d been an old-fashioned sort of teacher, he said, a “real stickler” for grammar and punctuation. From there, he’d gone on to the history of Riverwood. The estate had taken many years to build, he said, and through it all Warren Davies had remained sternly vigilant. “He kept an eye on the details of that house like he kept one on the details of his business.”
“What was Mr. Davies’ business?” Graves asked.
“Oh, he had a finger in lots of things. Construction. Pharmaceuticals. Loads of real estate. Mines too. Gold. Silver. Diamonds. Mr. Davies had an interest in them all.”
Saunders was still cataloguing the sources of the Davies fortune ten minutes later when they reached The Waves.
The building was considerably grander than Graves expected. A large Victorian house complete with gabled roof and wide wrap-around porch, it had no doubt once been the residence of a wealthy family, inhabited by the wife and children of a prominent local banker or landowner, as Graves conceived of it, and filled with the heavy mahogany furniture common to that era, wood so dark it seemed to pull light from the air around it. Whenever he imagined a ghost, he imagined it in such a house, an airy shape gliding effortlessly among the ponderous chairs and tables, always a girl with long chestnut hair, almost human save for the eerie translucence of her body, almost alive save for the dead look in her eyes.
Now, as he moved up the cement walkway that led to the rest home, Graves wondered if Mrs. Harrison ever saw Faye as he sometimes saw Gwen, a figure moving toward him, her long hair falling loosely over her shoulders, her arms lifted pleadingly, whispering the same words,
Oh, please, please, please …
She was sitting in a wooden rocker when he entered her room, facing the window, her back to him. The room was compact, with only a narrow bed, a mirrored bureau, and a chest of drawers. The walls were plain and white. There were no photographs. Instead, a large crucifix hung over the bed, and a print of the Virgin
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