MOON FALL (4 page)

The Moonfall sheriff's office had changed very little since
John Lawson's father had been in command. Located in the
town's historic business district just off Apple Hill Road, the
small, square building, clad in wood siding and a western
false front riser, was really concrete and stucco beneath. The
"historic" facades of downtown Moonfall had been added in
the early sixties, when the town council decided that a good
crop of tourists was at least as profitable as a harvest of apples.

Other than St. Gertrude's, a onetime monastery dating back
to Revolutionary War days, a few cabins, and the Baptist church
from the Civil War era, every building in town had been built
after the
turn
of the century. The western look amused John
Lawson: monks and then farmers had settled Moonfall, with
nary a cowboy in sight.

Despite this, he liked the look of the town, with its old
fashioned
soda fountains and tourist traps masquerading as
general stores and smithy shops. Moonfall Market only sold
meat from behind an antique glass butcher case manned by
One-Thumb Isaacson, but Franklin's Pharmacy was Moonfall's
jewel, with windows displaying rainbows of antique apothecary
bottles and jars that cast prisms of delicate color across the
sidewalk every afternoon.

Even the lobby of the sheriff's office bowed to the western
ambiance. An old-fashioned brass desk bell decorated the tall
cherry
wood counter that hid the dispatcher's desk. The walls
were adorned with reproductions of photographs from the Lawson
family albums: Tobias Lawson, the Baptist minister who'd
built the old church, had arrived shortly after Jeremiah Moonfall,
and the Lawsons figured as importantly in Moonfall's
history as the Moonfalls, though they showed up less
-
probably
due to their mundane surname and a lack of success with
apple-growing.

The Moonfalls had died out after selling their land to the
Parker clan, who later became the most prosperous apple growers
on the mountain. The Lawsons had stuck to preaching until
Henry, John's father, turned to law enforcement. And although
Henry had died in the line of duty in 1973, barely six months
after Greg's death, John's desire to follow in his father's footsteps
never wavered. If anything, his death had only strengthened
his resolve. It must have, he reflected, for him to return
to Moonfall after college and hire on as a deputy in a town he
thought he never wanted to see again.

Maybe, he thought as he pushed aside his half-finished report
on the Jane Doe, just maybe, Greg's death had had something
to do with it, too. He still held on to the hope that it hadn't
been an accident, if only to assuage his own guilt, but the only
indication he'd ever had of that was his and his friends' foggy
memories. He swiveled his desk chair, then stood and crossed
his disorderly little office. H
idden from public view behind a
closed door, it was piled high with notebooks and papers,
Wanted posters and mail, mostly junk. The scarred green desk
blotter was the only relatively clear thing in the room. It held
only a framed photo of his thirteen-year-old son, Mark, and
two mugs, one filled with pens and chewed pencils, the other
containing cold coffee.

Three tall oak file cabinets against one wall dated from the
thirties. The fourth, a beige metal one, had been added by his
father around 1970. It was three-quarters filled, mostly with
traffic violations and accident reports.

He opened the top drawer and flipped to 1972, then pulled
out a manila folder labeled "Lawson, Gregory," in faded blue
ink. His fingers trembled as they closed around the tabs. He'd
looked inside before, always wondering what he'd forgotten
about that Halloween night so many years ago.
Death by misadventure.
That was the finding of his own father.
But
...
what
if?
He shut off the thought, knowing he was only trying to get
around his own guilt.

"Sheriff Lawson?"

At the sound of his dispatcher's voice, his fingers opened,
dropping the file back in place, a kid caught with his hand
in
the cookie jar. "Yes, Dorothy?" he called, shutting the drawer.

She opened the door, her round face cheerful and motherly
-
grandmotherly,
he corrected: Dorothy had worked for his father
as well.

''There's someone
here
to see you," she confided. Anything Dorothy
said sounded as if it were a state secret.

"Isn't the intercom working?" he asked, as he did whenever
she opted for knocking-which was all the time. She was great
on the radio, so her dislike for the comm line seemed absurd.

She gave him a long-suffering look, but didn't bother to
dignify his question with a reply. "Shall I show her in?"

"Show
who
in-"

A bony hand appeared on the edge of the door and pulle
d
it farther open. Dorothy looked surprised as a nun, in full-habit,
came into view.

''This is important," said the nun, as she whisked past Dorothy,
"and I'm in a hurry." Shutting the door in the dispatcher's
f
ace, she stared at John with squinty dark eyes. "May we
speak?"

She looked jarringly familiar, and the musty cinnamon scent
she gave off was something he bad smelled before, something
that made him feel slightly queasy. Occasionally, he saw the
nuns in town, and he realized that's where he must have run
into her. He returned to his desk chair, then gestured at the
seat across the desk. Her long, angular face, faintly traced with
wrinkles at the eyes and between the pointy nose and thin,
pursed lips, made him think of the Wicked Witch of the West.
If nothing else, this horse-faced nun had to be a creature from
a Catholic schoolboy's worst nightmare; all she was missing
was a ruler for knuckle-rapping. For an instant, his voice
deserted him. He cleared his throat. "Please sit down, Sister."

"Mother," she corrected him, as she settled into the chair.
"Mother Superior Lucy Bartholomew. Head mistress of St.
Gertrude's Home for Girls." She extended her hand. It was
all stretched skin on bone, dry and hard and cool. The word
"reptilian" came to mind.

When her eyes bored into his, he had to fight an uncharacteristic
urge to cringe. "What can I do for you?"

''I wish to report a m
issing person." She folded her h
ands
on his desk.

''A student?" be asked, thinking that if he were a girl under
this woman's care, he'd certainly run away. "Or one of your
nuns?" he added.

''A lay teacher named Lenore Ty
nan."

The sight of the imposing nun h
ad momentarily made him
forget about the Jane Doe found at Witch Falls this morning,
but his professionalism came back in full force now. "How
long has she been missing?"

"We saw her at dinner last night. When she didn't show up
for breakfast, I sent Sister Regina to her room to check on her.
Miss Tynan wasn't there, but there was blood on the bed and
splashed on the floor and walls."

"Can you give me a description of Miss Tynan?"

"Five foot six, one hundred and ten pounds, light red hair,
twenty-five years old." The nun ticked off the data in the tone
of a teacher repeating a lesson to a class of idiots.

As John studied the woman's stern face, his stomach began
to churn at the thought of visiting St. Gruesome's. He'd never
gone near the place after Greg's death. There had been a call
or two during his time on the force, but he'd never had to go
himself. ''Mother Lucy," he began, ''we found the body of a
woman matching your description this morning."

"Where?" she asked, her composure firmly intact.

"Witch Falls," he said, his insides puckering.

Her expression hardened. ''That accursed place." There was
no sadness in her voice, no remorse. "What was she doing
there?"

"Maybe you can tell us. I'd like to take you over to the
coroner's office to identify the body."

"Certainly, but I'm in a hurry." She rose and waited until
he came around the desk and opened the door for her.

''That's Lenore Tynan," Mother Superior Lucy Bartholomew
sa
id
the instant Frank Cutter folded the sheet back from the
young woman's bruised, lifeless face. The three stood in
Cut
ter's
tiny morgue, gathered around the body on the metal table.
The room was cold and white, and the tang of antiseptic mingled
with the vague odor of decay and the mildewed cinnamon scent
that wafted from the nun. John wasn't sure which of these was
the most nauseating.

"You're certain?" John asked, as Cutter hesitated, the top
of the sheet in his hovering fingers. "You don't need another
look?"

"I'm positive." Lucy clipped the words off. "Cover her
up."

''I'll need to ask you some questions," John began.

"I realize that, Sheriff." The nun stepped to the door, put
her hand on the knob, and turned back to face the men. "I'll
receive you at the school later today. Stop at Apple Heaven
and ask the sisters to unlock the entry gate for you."

With that, she opened the door and stepped briskly out.

''Mother Lucy?" John called, and she halted, turning to glare
at him.

"Yes?"

"Don't let anyone into Miss Tynan's room before I get
there."

"Naturally," she practically barked, then pulled the door
closed behind her. An edge of black hem caught in it and John
grinned at Cutter as they heard a muted oath of some sort. The
door reopened minutely and the black cloth flashed out before
the door slammed closed again.

The doctor crossed his arms, whistling low. ''That nun was
worthy of Sister Mary Margaret, the meanest sixth-grade
teacher at St. Martin's Elementary."

"I didn't know you were Catholic," John said, averting his
eyes from the sheet
-
draped body on the metal table beside
them.

"I'm not. I kept getting into trouble in public school, so my
parents sent me to a Catholic boys' school." He chuckled. "I'm
afraid it didn't take."

"You? A troublemaker? What did you do?"

"Played doctor, what else?" When Cutter smiled, as he did
now, he bore an uncanny resemblance to Mel Torme. ''And I
must admit, I did lose all interest in that game at St. Martin's."
His smile faded and he glanced at the draped body of Lenore
Tynan. "Mysteriouser and mysteriouser," he said softly.

John followed his gaze. ''Have anything for me yet?"

"You arrived during my first breather of the morning. You
know that church potluck yesterday? Seems like about half the
Baptists in town got hold of some bad potato salad." He shook
his head. "Talk about having a run of customers!"

John smiled in spite of himself. "Sure it's just the Baptists?
T
hat nun had my stomach clenching the whole time she was
here."

"Some nuns have that effect. Don't worry, if you weren't
at the picnic, you're safe ... unless Gus brought you a plate.
Did he?"

"No. He's all right, isn't he?"

"He'd better be. I ordered your grandfather to stay away
from cholesterol-mayo, eggs, etcetera, so he wouldn't have
touched the stuff."

"No, that means he won't tell you if he did." John shook
his head. Augustus Lawson, retired Baptist minister, was as
old and spry as Caspar Parker, and he delighted in disobeying
doctor's orders. John figured the old man would outlive them
all, cholesterol be damned.

"I'll call him later." Cutter's expression became serious as
he looked down at the sheeted corpse. "You ready?"

John took a deep breath and looked, too. "As ready as I'll
ever be."

Cutter folded the sheet back, revealing the nude body of the
young woman. "See this, John?" He took one of the corpse's
arms and carefully turned it to expose the wrist. The hand was
bagged, and just above that, a deep horizontal gash revealed a
white glint of bone beneath pale, bloodless tissue. ''The other
arm's the same. She meant business."

"Then you
do
think it's a suicide?"

The doctor laid the arm back down. ''The angles are right
for it. And notice-except for a few scrapes she probably
suffered in the fall, there are no obvious signs of trauma. Of
course, I haven't done a pelvic yet, so we can't rule out rape,
but on the surface, it appears to be suicide."

John nodded, wishing Cutter would cover up the pitiful,
pale body. "That's a relief. This town doesn't need a murder,
especially with tourist season coming up." The truth was,
h
e
didn't need a murder, especially one that would have him
poking around St. Gruesome's. Fleetingly, he wished the place
would burn to the ground before he could arrive there today.

Cutter raised an eyebrow. "Your boys haven't found the
knife yet, have they? Or the anonymous caller?"

''Not so far as I know." Two of his three day deputies, Scotty
Carroll and Wyn Griffin, were scouring the Witch Falls area
as they spoke. "If she's a suicide, Frank, what was she doing
at the Falls?" Despite his wish to be done with this case, he
couldn't overlook the contradictions, couldn't deny his instincts.
"There's blood in her room, but she made it all the way to the
Falls. And there didn't appear to be more than a few drops on
the Mezzanine."

"We don't know how much blood is in her room," Cutter
observed. ''Maybe she started to cut, then finished it at the
Falls. Maybe you'll find the blade in the water."

"Blade," John said. "Razor or knife?"

"I'd say razor, by the looks of the cuts," the doctor replied,
as he picked up one dead white hand and examined the fingers
through the plastic encasing it. He shook his head and came
around to the other side of the table and repeated the process.
"A single-sided blade, or maybe a small, very thin-bladed
knife."

"Why start in her room, then change her mind and go to
the Falls to finish?" John probed. "Privacy?"

''Maybe so." Cutter covered the body and crossed to the
sink. ''The cuts were made crosswise," he called over his
shoulder as he washed his hands. "That's the slow way
,
Hollywood
style-maybe she realized someone could walk in
on her."

"Do you know if the teachers' rooms have private baths?"

"I have no idea," Cutter said, drying his hands. "I've never
made a housecall at St. Gertrude's."

"You're kidding."

"Nope. As I understand it, they've got their own doctor on
the premises. Always have had. When are you heading out
there? I'd like to go along."

"I'd like you to," John said, and meant it. "Half an hour?"
he asked, knowing that was the doctor's lunchtime.

Cutter consulted his watch. "I'll be ready."

John took his leave, wondering if he had time to stop by the
Gingerbread House and question Minerva Payne, who lived
near the Falls. He had never told anyone about seeing the old
woman
-
' 'the old witch," in those days-at the Falls the day
his little brother drowned, but he would never forget. Scotty
had said the caller who reported the body sounded like a young
woman, and Minerva Payne, though unbent by the years, was
at least as old as God, so she probably wasn't the caller. He
consulted his watch again and decided against visiting her just
yet. The decision lifted a weight from his shoulders. Although
the day he'd locked eyes with her he'd seen sympathy in them,
he'd been frightened, and to this day he'd never done more
than nod a greeting.

Old childhood myths never really died; instead, they gained
power with each new generation. Moonfall's current generation
of kids still loved to tell stories about the ''old witch." In his
day, Minerva could make you sick just by looking at you, but
the most popular story today-that she could
turn
you into a
gargoyle decorating St. Gruesome's-was a minor one twenty
-
five
years ago. He knew they were all ridiculous
-
he even
knew it when he was a kid
-
but whenever he thought of her,
a little thrill still wormed through his belly. It was a fun sort
of fright, though; nothing like the lead that filled his gut at the
thought of returning to St. Gruesome's.