Shadow in the Glass Read online

  SHADOW IN THE GLASS

  A Greer Hogan Mystery

  M. E. HILLIARD

  For Jeanne and Helene

  Acknowledgments

  Writing is a solitary pursuit. Completing a book and getting it out into the world requires the help of many people. Special thanks to my husband, Mark, for keeping our lives running while I was immersed in writing. I’m grateful to my family for always being my biggest fans, and equally grateful for the support and encouragement I received from the staff of the Lee County Library System, especially Angela Ortiz. For her generosity in sharing her time and incredible knowledge of the advertising industry, I thank Liz Rosenthal. Any errors in the portrayal of the Whitaker family firm are mine and not hers. Many thanks to my agent Julie Gwinn. I couldn’t have done it without any of you.

  Chapter One

  It is a truth, universally unacknowledged, that a single woman in possession of a good fortune has no practical need of a husband. However firmly stated the feelings or views of such a woman may be, this truth is so fixedly unaccepted in the minds of those who meet her that remedying her woeful marital state is considered a righteous project for any number of meddlesome, though well-meaning, friends, relatives, and distant acquaintances. And so it was that I found myself driving northward one beautiful autumn afternoon, to attend the third wedding of my friend Sarah Whitaker, who was brilliant, beautiful, and stinking rich.

  I was happy to support Sarah in her latest, and hopefully last, trip down the aisle. I was planning on staying a few extra days in Lake Placid and turning it into a mini-vacation. After the events of the previous spring and a busy summer at the Raven Hill Library, I needed a break. Late September was the perfect time of year for a week in the Adirondacks, and Sarah’s wedding gave me the perfect cover for my ulterior motive—investigating a murder.

  Any wedding is always fraught with emotion. I confess my own feelings were mixed. While genuinely happy for my friend, I had attended her second wedding with my late husband, Danny. The two of us had later visited the newlyweds at the Whitakers’ summer cottage on Mirror Lake. Though I had seen Sarah a few times since, this was my first trip north after that last getaway with Danny. And here I was, on my way to several days of nuptial festivities, with my own agenda: to determine if any of the guests, including my own first love, had any knowledge of my husband’s murder.

  I had lived for some time with the suspicion that I had let an innocent man go to jail in order to keep a secret. From the moment I walked into our apartment and found Danny’s body on the floor, there were things that didn’t add up. But in the welter of grief and guilt and rage, I had ignored them. The part of my brain that was still functioning logically noted them and filed them away, but the day I buried Danny I decided to bury every memory related to the night he died. Any facts that didn’t fit the case the police came up with were simply added to that mental box, and there they stayed for years, until the nightmares started. Even then, I tried to ignore them. But life happens. Circumstances change. I changed my profession. I changed where I lived. But my new and supposedly peaceful life had brought me within seconds of being a multiple murderer’s latest victim. It’s the kind of thing that focuses your attention like very little else can. I emerged from the experience a different woman than the one who had arrived in Raven Hill determined to forget. I wanted answers. And I would get them. The fog had lifted.

  I left the village of Raven Hill Wednesday afternoon. I’d gotten up early, for me, and gone for a brisk-walk–slow-jog combo through the winding streets of the village. After my adventures of the previous spring, I had decided it was time to get in better shape. The everyday exercise I’d taken for granted as a city girl had disappeared into the suburban car culture of the Albany area. I wanted to make sure that the next time I had to outrun a murderer, I could do it. I was aided in my quest by local police officer Jennie Webber. The two of us had become unlikely friends after working together to find a killer. The former soldier was younger and in better shape, but with her encouragement I was getting back to fighting form. That didn’t stop me from packing a full complement of Lycra shapewear to ensure I looked great for the wedding weekend, though. At forty, I was taking no chances. The underpinnings taken care of, I’d pulled out several outfits I couldn’t decide between. In the end, I packed them all. I decided this was one of those times when more was more—for whatever parts I needed to play, I wanted the confidence that came with the perfect costume.

  It wasn’t a long drive up to Lake Placid—most of it was on the Northway, and the weather was good. But once you got off the highway, you spent a lot of time on winding country roads. I twisted through the woods and the small towns that were scattered across the Adirondacks, windows rolled down and music turned up, enjoying the mountain air and the scenery. The foliage in late September was a blazing spectacle, but leaves had already started to fall. They twirled and danced, sometimes leaping into the road in front of me before spinning away as I passed. When not passing through the shadowed woods, the narrow roads were carved into the mountains. Two lanes, with a steep wall of jagged rock on one side and cold, rushing water on the other. Not a trip for the faint of heart. I found it exhilarating. Over the river and through the woods, a-hunting I would go.

  By the time I reached Lake Placid, I had a renewed appreciation for the beauty of the Adirondacks and the effort it took to get there. The trip to the 1932 Winter Olympics must have been an event in and of itself. It probably wasn’t much better in 1980. The ski jump loomed over me as I drove into town. The trip down Main Street required a more sedate pace, giving me a few minutes to relax and enjoy the scenery. Much of the village of Lake Placid was on the shore of Mirror Lake, with the lake that gave the place its name located a little to the north and west of downtown. It was a charming blend of old and new, with something to do in every season.

  The wedding was a multiday affair. Sarah said she wanted to spend time with her friends and family, so she and her fiancé Jack had arrived the previous weekend and wouldn’t leave for their honeymoon until a few days after the ceremony. There was a ladies’ tea Thursday afternoon (“Lets me do my face time with the elderly aunties and my mother’s friends,” Sarah had told me), and I’d volunteered to attend and provide moral support. The rehearsal on Friday night would be followed by a “small party” with a band, buffet, and open bar, all on the Whitaker waterfront. The actual ceremony would be midday on Saturday, followed by lunch at a local venue. There would be a breakfast on Sunday for those guests still in town who wanted to carb up before heading home or off to other vacation pursuits. Various activities had been arranged between wedding events. The whole thing reminded me of something out of a Regency romance. I was sure Sarah’s mother would have had croquet as well if their lawn didn’t slope down to the lake at such an angle. And knowing the Whitakers, the food would be excellent and the alcohol free-flowing. My plan was to drink a lot of water between parties and tell my liver to brace for impact.

  I’d been invited to spend the weekend at the Whitaker cottage. The term was an emphatic understatement, even by the standards of the wealthy. Situated on a waterfront lot on Mirror Lake, the “cottage” consisted of a main house, a guesthouse, and a boathouse. All were original, dating back a century or more. Back then, the place was less crowded, extended families spent the summer or ski season in large houses, and waterfront property was expensive, but not obscenely so. Sarah’s family had always been comfortable enough to hang on to the place. Each building had since been renovated to include all the modern conveniences but still retained the look and feel of an earlier era. Even the boathouse had a sizable apartment on the second floor. The whole place was tied together by gravel paths and a rambling garden. The only thing it la
cked was parking, but Desmond Whitaker had remedied that by buying a rundown house on a small lot across the street, tearing it down, and building a garage. The rich are different from you and me—they are so rarely inconvenienced.

  I figured I’d be stashed on the third floor, in what used to be the servants’ quarters. The few spare rooms on the second floor would be reserved for older relatives who might have trouble with all the stairs. This was no hardship as far as I was concerned. The views from the top floor were gorgeous. The Whitakers had knocked out walls and updated the plumbing to make a couple of guest rooms. Sarah’s dad had taken one side for a home office, complete with a door to a covered stairway leading to the garden. He often worked late and liked to go for a stroll along the lake before bed. I’d wondered about that private entrance, but the one time I’d mentioned it to Danny, he had laughed and told me I had a suspicious mind. Like Miss Marple, I thought the worst of people because it so often turned out to be true.

  Wherever I’d be sleeping, it was kind of the Whitakers to invite me. Sarah’s mother had always been fond of me. She seemed to think I was a good influence, probably because she didn’t know me well, and Sarah wasn’t talking. I’d offered to help with last-minute wedding things but was told that was in no way necessary. As far as I was concerned, it was. There were at least half a dozen people attending who had some connection to Danny and the company he was working for when he died. Since I had only a passing acquaintance with most of them, guest lists, seating arrangements, and contact information would be very handy to have.

  I had tackled Sarah first.

  “You know your mother will be making you crazy,” I said. “This way, you and I get more time to catch up, and I can run interference between the two of you. Besides, it’s awkward being the widow at the wedding. The guests I know also knew Danny, and I haven’t seen most of them since his funeral. This will give me something to do, and something to talk about if things get uncomfortable. And I really would love to help.”

  I’d like to say I was above playing the widow-of-a-murder-victim card, but I’d be lying.

  Sarah sighed.

  “I hadn’t thought about that. Well, if you’re sure. It would be fun to have you helping me out and keeping my mother off my back. I thought not having a wedding party would make things simpler. I guess I didn’t realize how much grunt work my bridesmaids did last time.”

  “Now you know why I went on that European business trip with Dan and didn’t come back until the day before the service.”

  She laughed and said, “I totally get it. And I appreciate the offer to help. I just don’t want you to feel like one of Mother’s minions.”

  “I can manage your mother. And she’s such an organizational wonder I doubt there will be much to do beyond keeping you from strangling her. So—settled?”

  And it was. Sarah had talked to her mother, and I had made a follow-up call to Jane Whitaker repeating my offer and suggesting a gin and champagne cocktail perfect for the tea. Jane liked her gin as much as she liked me—she’d never been a pastel party punch kind of girl. So the deal was done. Greer Hogan, wedding guest, would double as Greer Hogan, undercover Girl Detective, without anyone being the wiser. I was pleased with myself as I pulled up to the Whitaker house. I needed a vacation, and Lake Placid was beautiful this time of year. All I had to do was show up, keep the bride and her mother from killing each other, give a reading at the service, and begin an investigation into a murder that was technically already solved, without tipping anyone off that I was nosing around. Easy-peasy.

  Had I but known …

  Chapter Two

  “I’m so sorry!” Sarah was agitated, alternately wringing her hands and waving them around. This was out of character for my usually poised friend. She’d met me in the driveway, bounding out the door before I’d even gotten out of the car. After hugs and hellos, we were standing at the edge of the lawn. While I stretched after the long drive, Sarah told me there was a change of plan. Apparently, more out-of-town relatives had decided, at the last minute, to attend the wedding, and all the rooms at the Whitaker house were needed.

  “So everyone is being rearranged. I can’t believe it—Mother always has a plan B and C, but this time she seems to have been caught unprepared. We both feel terrible. But don’t worry—we’re going to put you up at a hotel. The Mirror Lake Inn. Right up the street. Hadn’t you planned to do a spa day there? On us. Mother decided, after all you’ve been through, that you deserve a treat. Whatever you want. Let me get my bag, and we’ll go get you checked in.”

  Sarah was hopping with impatience. She turned toward the house.

  “Oh, that’s so kind. Shouldn’t I say hello to your mother first and thank her?” I said.

  “She can wait. I think she’s busy anyway, triple-checking something with the caterer or micromanaging the housekeeper. I’m not even sure where she is. We can go get you settled, and maybe grab a bite to eat? You can thank her later. Though we should be thanking you for your understanding.”

  Not hardly. The Mirror Lake Inn was way out of my current price range. Danny and I had spent an anniversary weekend there once as a special treat, but my librarian’s salary wouldn’t cover it. I’d wanted to be in the thick of things, and I was willing to bet some of the people I wanted to talk to would be staying at the inn. And I’d be spending a lot of time at the Whitaker place anyway.

  “You know me—always willing to take one for the team. Especially if it involves a luxury hotel stay! I was going to come early for the tea anyway, remember? I’ll talk to your mom then.”

  “You’re the best!” Sarah said. “Be right back.” She bounded toward the house.

  I went around to the passenger side of the car, to move the stuff for the trip I’d piled there on to the back seat. That done, I turned in a slow circle, taking in the scenery. The sun was going down, casting long shadows. The rays of light that came through the trees created blinding reflections off the windows of the Whitaker house and those of its nearest neighbor. I’d always wondered about that house. The two homes looked as though they had been built around the same time. There was never anyone there when I visited, but it was always kept up nicely, from what I’d seen of the exterior. Right now, though, very little of that was visible. A row of evergreens ran along the side of the driveway, hiding all but the top floor. The trees swayed gently in the breeze, revealing several windows. The waning daylight flickered across them. For a second, I thought I saw someone, a moving figure, there and then gone. I watched, but it didn’t reappear.

  “All houses in which men have lived and suffered and died are haunted houses.” I quoted Mary Roberts Rinehart, one of my favorites among the old school American mystery writers. I felt chilled—the sun set fast in the mountains. Deciding that what I’d seen must have been a trick of the light, I walked back to the driver’s side of my car and got in. But while I waited for Sarah, I continued to watch the windows next door. I saw no movement. Seconds ticked past, and then a faint red glow appeared. It held steady for a moment, then floated across the pane and vanished. I stared, waiting for it to reappear. The sound of a voice made me jump.

  “Let’s go,” Sarah said, settling into the passenger seat. She smiled as she pulled on the car door, which closed with a solid Germanic thunk. “You kept Dan’s BMW. How old is this thing now?”

  “Old enough to be cool, instead of just plain old,” I said. “I couldn’t bear to part with it, Dan loved it so much. And now that I have to drive everywhere, it’s nice to have. Solid and safe.”

  I started the car, giving the house next door one last, long look. Nothing. Trick of the light, of the setting sun, I repeated, or maybe someone’s there this time. But it left me with an odd feeling. I backed out and turned the car toward the inn.

  We chatted about my new home, the village of Raven Hill, on the short drive to the hotel. Once parked, we headed to the front desk, where I picked up my room key while Sarah ordered some wine and a fruit and cheese plate to be s
ent up. A bellman was dispatched for my luggage.

  “You must be hungry. I could use a little something, too. I haven’t really had a chance to eat today. So many last-minute things. I’ll help you unpack and we can catch up,” Sarah said as we waited for the elevator. My room was lovely, with polished wood furniture and thick carpets. The sitting area in front of the window looked out on Main Street and Mirror Lake. Once my luggage and the food had arrived, we settled in with a glass of wine. Sarah still seemed edgy. Bridal jitters? I decided to do a little gentle probing.

  “So, ready for the big day?” I asked. “And the two days before? And the day after?”

  Sarah laughed. “It seems over the top, doesn’t it? But for once I can’t pin it all on my mother. I wanted something informal, something fun, and a chance to visit with everyone. I guess I pictured myself in some boho dress, barefoot in the garden, with a French country picnic lunch after. Then the planning seemed to take on a life of its own. It probably seems silly, since it’s my third wedding. Still, I thought it would be nice to have one more big get-together before everything changes. And it’s not like I’ll ever do it again.”

  “Third time’s the charm?” I teased. “And what’s going to change, other than you and Jack settling into wedded bliss?’

  “I can’t believe I’m doing this for the third time. You know something, Greer? This is the only one that feels real. Like this is it, until death do us part. The first one was because I was young and stupid and wanted to piss off my parents. The second one was because everyone was pairing off and it seemed like it was time. With Jack, it feels right. Like I’ve met my soul mate.”

  “That’s wonderful, Sarah. I’m really happy for you.” And I was. I had actually introduced Sarah to her current fiancé back in the day, but at the time she had been dating the dull and appropriate young man who had become husband number two. He was likable enough, so blandly handsome I couldn’t remember his face, and met with full approval from her parents. I guess he was qualified for the job he got in the family business, though he hadn’t set the world on fire while he was there. And though she did get married in the same two-year period as everyone else we knew, I always thought she was trying to atone for that brief, disastrous marriage to an avowed Communist with whom she’d eloped during a rebellious phase her sophomore year at Columbia. Jack Peterson, the current groom, had shared an apartment with Danny while both were in graduate school. Jack was now a successful architect, unfazed by Sarah’s wealth and ambition. He was also a genuinely nice guy. They were a good match.