"She worked at the Shamrock," a voice said. Looking up, we saw Brandon standing in the doorway. His face was pale but composed. "She had just started. On her eighteenth birthday. She knew it was the only way to make enough money fast enough to be ready to leave by graduation."

Wayne straightened, the empty pink bag in his hand. "You recognize this, I take it?"

"Sure." Brandon nodded. "It's Holly's. Her book bag. I saw it every day in school."

"Can you explain how it got here?"

Brandon shook his head. "Would you mind explaining how you got here?"

The stupid answer would be "by car," but Wayne didn't go for the cheap out. "Anonymous tip. Your mother said I should feel free to look around while I waited." He shifted his weight slightly. "You made good time to Bar Harbor and back." There was just a hint of . . . was it suspicion, in his voice?

"Mr. Rudolph wasn't the chatty type. And I didn't think you were paying me to go sightseeing."

Brandon came a few steps into the room, and they faced each other across the neat stacks of items that had been Holly's. Tension crackled in the air. I looked from one to the other of them. As far as I could tell, they were both behaving like idiots, although I didn't suppose it was my place to say anything about it. "Did you hear about Ricky Swanson?" I asked instead, in an effort to calm the waters and give everyone something else to think about. Brandon turned to me.

"The one who made the picture of Holly over at the college? What about him?"

"Turns out he's really Patrick Murphy. You know, the kid who survived the ma.s.sacre of his family at the house on Becklea seventeen years ago?"

Brandon's wary expression lightened a little as he listened but shuttered again when he heard the conclusion. "So he didn't have anything to do with Holly's death?"

"Doesn't seem like it," Wayne said. "I was on my way to check into it when this anonymous tip came in and I got distracted."

"I'd be crazy to call it in myself," Brandon pointed out, folding muscular arms across his broad chest. "And if I killed her, I'd be crazy to keep her stuff sitting around, too. Especially where anyone walking in from the street could find it. The shed's not even locked!"

Wayne nodded. "I noticed."

"And even if I'd been nutty enough to keep her bag here for four years-to finger her underwear whenever I felt lonely or whatever . . ."

Mine wasn't the only face that twisted in distaste at this image. Brandon continued, "I'd have wanted to get rid of it once the body was found. I had a perfect opportunity today, too. I could have taken it with me to Bar Harbor and tossed it in a Dumpster. You'd never have thought to look for it there. Not after all this time."

"You're right about that," Wayne nodded. "Still, you have to see that it looks bad."

Brandon had to agree that it did. "What are you going to do?"

His boss grimaced. "Guess I'll have to suspend you for the time being. While we look into it. No choice, really."

Brandon grimaced, too, but he didn't argue. Instead, he pulled his gun off his belt, removed the ammunition, and handed both to Wayne before unpinning his badge from the front of his shirt and handing that over, as well. I could see his throat move as he swallowed, but he didn't say a word.

"This stinks," Derek said.

I nodded. "Whoever called that tip in-Holly's killer, don't you think? Since only Holly's killer would have had Holly's stuff to be able to plant it here?-whoever it was not only shifted suspicion onto Brandon, and tied up police resources, since Wayne has to spend time investigating Brandon now, but he also took Brandon off duty, so Wayne has less help to do the rest of the work."

"It was a brilliant move," Derek agreed. "So what will you do now, Brandon?"

He looked down at his hands and shrugged forlornly. "No idea."

"Want to help us renovate?" I blurted out. It was the only thing I could think to suggest.

Brandon hesitated. Glanced at Wayne.

"It's fine with me," the latter said.

"But the location . . . ? The fact that Holly was found underneath the house and Miss Rudolph was murdered next door?"

Wayne shrugged. "It's private property. The police have released it to the owners, and they can invite anyone they want inside to help them."

"I wouldn't mind," Brandon admitted, with a glance around. "I'll have to do something to stay busy, or I'll go crazy. Working out doesn't have much appeal right now."

"We'll have to seal the place anyway," Wayne said. "Dust for fingerprints, and all that. Without you to do it, it's gonna take a lot longer."

"And I can't leave Waterfield; that would look like I was running away. . . ."

"It'll give you something to do," Derek said with a bracing slap on Brandon's broad shoulder. "Go get changed. You can start right now."

Brandon nodded and loped off toward the house to change out of the uniform that was no longer his and to rea.s.sure his mother that whatever else was wrong, at least he wasn't about to be arrested.

"That's nice of you," Wayne said with an approving nod. Derek shrugged.

"Better than having him sit around thinking up some c.o.c.kamamie idea for something he can do to help himself. And we can keep an eye on him, too. Just in case he isn't as innocent as he seems."

"Not to mention that we can always use another pair of hands," I said.

"There's that."

"Well, whatever the reason," Wayne said, "you're doing a good thing. I appreciate it. And so, I'm sure, does he."

"We'll see," Derek answered, with a grin, "after he's finished work tonight."

20.

"Here's what we'll do," Derek said five hours later. Between them, he and Brandon had torn out the old sink base and commode from the brown and blue master bathroom and had readied the teak dresser to be put in its place. But before we could get to that, we had to put together the plumbing for the two sinks and attach the basins to the dresser; once that was done, we could slide it over the pipes, and finish hooking the pipes together inside it. "We need to buy two sinks and a couple of fittings and pipes for the plumbing. I guess it's time for dinner anyway. Have you had enough for today, Brandon?"

Brandon didn't look as fresh as he had earlier, but I didn't think it was because of what he'd been doing. Renovating is hard work, but he was twenty-two and in good shape; a half day of manual labor shouldn't have bothered him. More likely he was stressed. He'd lost his gun and badge, at least temporarily, and was, at least officially, a suspect in two homicides. It had to be disturbing. We'd tried to keep him busy to keep him from having time to think, but it was inevitable that his predicament would be on his mind. Also, he was back here, where Holly had lain buried for four years, he being none the wiser. He probably felt he'd failed her, somehow. Not to mention that he'd been here with Holly himself, at least once. When she was young and beautiful, and above all, alive.

"When were you and Holly here together?" I asked impulsively. Brandon turned to me, taken aback, and I clarified, "The other day, before we realized that it was Holly who was buried in the crawls.p.a.ce, you said you'd been here with her once. You were talking to Lionel Kenefick, remember? Outside."

"Oh. Right." He thought back. "I guess it must have been a week or two before she left. Died." He swallowed.

"That wasn't the last time you saw her, was it?"

He shook his head. "I saw her at school every day after that. And we were still dating, too. Hanging out. You know. We just didn't come back here."

I opened my mouth to ask why, whether anything had happened to make them choose not to, but before I could, Derek had taken the conversation in a different direction.

"So when was the last time you saw her?" He had folded his arms across his chest and was leaning against the front of the dresser. Being, as he had said, dense and heavy, it didn't budge.

"Alive?" Brandon asked.

Derek rolled his eyes. "Of course alive. You didn't see her dead, did you?"

"Of course not." Brandon's face was pale. "Not until two days ago. And then I didn't know it was her."

"So when?"

His eyes flickered. "I guess it must have been the day before she died. Final exams were over, and she told me she was ready to blow town. I tried to get her to change her mind, but she wouldn't. Then she tried to get me to agree to come with her."

"I thought she wanted to marry some rich guy and sit around sipping champagne all day," I commented. "At least that's what Denise Robertson said."

That particular fantasy didn't seem to include a steady boyfriend, especially one she'd dragged clear across the country with her.

"Denise doesn't know squat," Brandon answered.

"I thought she and Holly were close friends?"

"Is that what she told you?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Look, Holly was gorgeous. Popular. The girl all the other girls wanted to be and all the guys wanted to be with. And she got off on it. It fed some kind of insecurity in her to have everyone admire her. She let Denise hang around with her, but their relationship wasn't friendship so much as hero-worship on Denise's part, and maybe some calculation on Holly's. Denise was always sort of plain and dumpy, and Holly knew that if they were standing next to each other, she'd come off looking better."

Derek muttered something, in which I thought I could make out the word "Melissa," but I had other things on my mind and didn't chase it down.

"She doesn't sound like a very nice person," I remarked instead.

Brandon looked frustrated. He tried to drive a hand through his hair, but the police buzz cut was too short to give satisfaction. "It wasn't that she wasn't nice, OK? She could be very sweet. She was just immature, you know? Her dad left when she was just a kid, and I think it probably messed with her. Made her feel like he didn't love her. So she was always trying to get everyone else to love her, or at least like her, instead. Especially men."

Derek had told me that Brandon's dad had left around the same time as Brandon started dating Holly, so maybe that's what had brought them together. The loss of both their fathers, at different times.

"So Holly asked you to go to California with her?" Derek said. Brandon nodded. "How was she planning to get there?"

"She wanted me to drive," Brandon said, with a faint, reminiscent smile. "Like that old jalopy I had then would have made it that far!"

"What do you think she did, when you said no?"

Brandon thought for a brief second. "Probably tried to find someone else to take her instead."

"Would she hitchhike?" I asked. He shook his head.

"I don't think so. She may have been immature, but she wasn't stupid. More likely she tried to find another friend with a car who'd be up for an adventure."

Someone without a sick mother and ties to Waterfield that couldn't easily be broken. Brandon must have been more mature than Holly, even four years ago.

"Denise?" Derek suggested. Brandon shook his head.

"There's no way Denise would have left Travis. Her boyfriend. Husband, now. And Holly wouldn't have wanted the compet.i.tion, anyway. Getting away from Waterfield and 'making it' was her thing; she would have wanted to do it on her own."

"Would she have asked a guy, then?"

Brandon's eyebrows furrowed for a second while he thought. "Most likely she would. No compet.i.tion from a guy, and she could get most of us-them-to do whatever she wanted."

"So maybe whoever she asked killed her?" I said.

"Unless she never asked anyone else, and Denise killed her," Derek answered. "Or her mother did. To stop her from leaving, maybe."

"True," I admitted.

Brandon looked a little sh.e.l.l-shocked as he listened to our discussion. He'd known Holly, and must be, in his own way, mourning the loss, as well as processing the shock of finding out she'd been killed, even so long after the fact. Not to mention that he was probably processing the fact that he'd been digging out her skeleton, without realizing it. To us, it was more of an interesting puzzle. And also, if we could prove that Holly had been killed somewhere else, and arrived here only after death, maybe that would make the house a little easier to off-load. Not that there was much hope of that, considering the blood stain on the stove and what was likely Holly's earring that I'd found underneath the fridge.

"So about dinner," Derek said. Obviously the discussion hadn't affected his appet.i.te at all. Derek's appet.i.te was affected by very little, I'd realized. Brandon, on the other hand, looked queasy.

"Why don't you two go get some food," he suggested, "and pick up the stuff we need while you're at it. I'll stay here and strip some wallpaper or something. You can bring me back a sandwich, just in case I get hungry later."

"We can do that," Derek said, putting an arm around my shoulders.

"Are you sure you want to stay here alone, though?" I asked. Brandon nodded.

"Word's probably got out by now. I don't want to go anywhere where I'll have to talk to anyone. Or listen to them talk about me."

I could understand that. "Still . . ."

Derek's arm tightened. "C'mon, Avery. Let's go."

"Yes," I said as he led me toward the door to the hallway, "but . . ."

"I'll be fine," Brandon a.s.sured my back. "I'm just gonna stay here and work. And think. Maybe I'll remember something that'll help. The sooner Wayne arrests somebody for the murders, the sooner I'll be back on duty. No offense, I appreciate what you're trying to do, but I'd rather be back at my own job again."

"We'll see you in an hour or so," Derek said, without commenting. "Move it, Tink."

"Yes," I tried again, "but . . ."

The rest of my sentence was lost when he whisked me out the door into the gathering dusk.

"What was that all about?" I asked a couple of minutes later, when we were in the truck on our way down Becklea. Just as we reached the corner, we met Lionel Kenefick's van coming the other way. I waved, but he must not have realized who I was, because he didn't wave back. I watched in the mirror as he zipped into his driveway and parked.

"He wants some time alone," Derek answered.

"Brandon? Why?"

Derek glanced over at me, his expression almost comical. "Put yourself in his shoes, Avery. In the past two days, he's found out that his old girlfriend, who he thought was strutting her stuff on a movie set in Hollywood, has actually been dead for four years. He's dug up her skeleton and come face-to-face with a forensic reconstruction of her face. He's also had to process another murder victim, this one fresh. And now someone is planting evidence around his house, trying to implicate him. He has lost his job, at least temporarily, and along with it his ability to support his mom, whose medicines cost thousands every month. MS isn't a cheap illness to treat. And on top of that, we've just asked him to spend four hours in the house where Holly was buried. Then grilled him about what happened the last time he saw her. I'm sure he's happy to be rid of us for a while."

"When you put it like that," I admitted, "I guess I can see your point."

"So where do you want to eat?" He turned the car onto the main road.