"What are you doing with those?" Blythe sounded concerned.
"I might be able to lift prints from the cellophane."
"They don't belong to us." She was using a tone Mary remembered from childhood when most of Blythe's moralizing came by way of heavy suggestion or opinion. "I think you should leave them by the cross."
"Really?" Mary asked, hoping this didn't turn into a battle. She had no intention of putting the roses back.
"I feel bad about this. Does it matter who's visiting wanted to put dowers there. What's wrong with that?"
"He ran away."
"I'd run too if I came upon someone hiding in the woods right where a sixteen-year-old girl had been murdered."
"Come on," Mary said, heading back toward the house.
"You aren't going to leave the flowers?"
"No."
"But, darling. Think about it. Taking them is like… like grave robbing."
Mary stopped and turned around. "Do you always have to be my conscience?"
"Isn't that what a mother does?"
Mary sighed. "Okay, I'll bring them back. After I check for prints. How's that?"
"Much better."
When they reached the house Mary asked Blythe if she had any superglue. "And the heated tank I used to keep my lizard in. Do we still have that?"
She already knew the answer. Her mother never got rid of anything.
Wearing latex gloves, Mary arranged the cellophane-wrapped roses carefully in the reptile tank she'd positioned in the center of the kitchen counter. She squeezed superglue onto a small dish fashioned from aluminum foil. That she placed in the bottom of the container, which was then sealed tightly with plastic wrap and packing tape.
"Now we wait." Mary plugged in the heater cord. "Years ago somebody discovered that the heated vapors from superglue make fingerprints appear on hard-to-dust objects. And since I don't have any fingerprint powder…"
As they watched, smoke gradually filled the sealed peared on the green cellophane.
"Now I feel like MacGyver," Blythe said.
Mary carried the tank outside and unsealed it so the vapors would evaporate. Back in the kitchen, she lifted the cellophane-wrapped roses from the tank. She'd been able to capture several clear prints. "Who says I can't cook?"
The problem with the superglue method was that the prints couldn't be lifted and transferred to a slide or card without the aid of fingerprint powder. Mary ended up cutting off squares of cellophane, which she carefully taped to index cards. She was just finishing up when the doorbell rang. She checked the wall clock. Almost nine. Anthony.
Mary answered the door.
"Superglue?" he asked, stepping inside. He removed his coat and tossed it over a chair, excited at the prospect of a clue. "Did you find some prints?"
"It's nothing to do with the case," Mary quickly explained, gesturing toward a sitting area in the living room as she attempted to divert him. She didn't want him to know what she'd been up to.
But the smell of glue was overpowering, and he followed his nose into the kitchen, where Blythe was putting a bouquet of flowers in water.
"Those are the foulest roses I've ever smelled. He leaned forward to examine the prints on the index cards. "What's going on?"
"I'll let Mary tell you," Blythe said. "I'm freezing." She hugged herself and rubbed her arms. "I'm going upstairs to take a hot bath."
When she was gone, Anthony grabbed Mary's hand. "You're cold, too. What have you been doing?"
Mary pulled away to turn on the teakettle. "Would you like some hot tea?" She was wearing a bulky wool sweater, and her cheeks were bright red from the outdoors. On her feet were thick socks. She looked vibrant.
"Sure," he said.
She retrieved two cups and placed a tin of tea bags on the counter between them. "Help yourself."
He poked through the supply, passing on the florals and herbals to settle on Earl Grey. "Go on. I'm still waiting for an answer."
She hesitated, prepared to say something elusive. But then she thought about the occasions in the past when she'd evaded his questions only to later regret her silence. She didn't want to push him away anymore.
She briefly, told him about the person in the woods, and the site where a sixteen-year-old girl had lost her life years ago.
"Your friend."
"Yes."
Once she got started, she didn't stop. She told him about the birthday party. She told him about Fiona and about how she'd found her in the woods. It all came pouring out.
At the end, he said, "Jesus. You were only a kid yourself."
"It was a long time ago."
"Time doesn't always mean that much when you're dealing with something traumatic."
She began to bustle around, as if suddenly embarrassed by how much of herself she'd let him see. The teapot was ready. She focused her attention on pouring steaming water into his cup, then hers.
"I still don't understand why you're investigating a closed case," he said.
The subtle disapproval in his voice set her on guard. "I'm not investigating it. I'm just curious, that's all."
"What about the current homicides?"
"I've worked several cases at a time before. I'm not being negligent, if that's what you're implying."
"I simply think it's a waste of time, energy, and focus. And I'm not sure it's healthy."
She crossed her arms. "Earlier today you wanted to know why I'm tense when my sister's around. It's simple and easy to explain: A buddy of hers killed my friend." She looked over her shoulder, in the direction her mother had gone. Upstairs water was running. "All these years," she whispered, looking deadly serious and terribly sad. "All these years I've suspected that my sister may have put the idea in his head, however unintentionally."
Anthony wasn't impressed. "You were a child. You've dealt with enough juvenile cases to know children often create their own reality, often misread something that has happened, especially when a high degree of fear is involved."
"I know that. I realize that. But Gillian hated Fiona. She despised her. And Gavin would do anything for my sister, including killing someone he knew was making her miserable. Even if that isn't the case, her betrayal has been an ongoing saga. She visited the bastard in prison. She helped him get a job and a place to live when he got out."
"He's out?"
She lowered her mug. "Released a couple of months ago." She looked at him, waiting for a reaction.
"Shortly before the girls began disappearing," Anthony said thoughtfully.
"Handy, isn't it?"
"Do you think there's a connection?"
"I haven't found anything to substantiate that idea. But if you're asking about my gut feeling, I'd have to say I think he may have something to do with it."
The extra heat in her voice made him pause. "Emotions can skew a person's perspective."
"I know. I hate this guy, and I would like nothing more than to see him back in prison where there's no chance of his hurting anyone again. And," she admitted, "I'm afraid every piece of evidence I look at is colored by those feelings."
Anthony nodded, taking it all in. "The person in the woods. The person who put up the cross. You think it might be this-what did you say his name was?"
"Gavin Hitchcock."
"You think it might be Gavin Hitchcock?"
"Doesn't it make sense? He got out of prison two months ago. Killers often go back to the scene of the crime. He never got the chance because he was arrested right after her murder. So now he can finally return and relive that day, even put up a shrine. And what about the roses? Red roses. It makes sense to me. Does it make sense to you?"