studying them in any mirror he could find. The plastic surgeons had managed to save what they could, but it was still clear something horrible had happened to him. His lips were now a series of unsightly bumps, populated with specks of white where the needle and thread had slipped through. When Henry ran his fingertips over them, it felt like he was trying to read Braille.
Tugging on his collar, Henry examined the right side of his neck. His skin was eggshell pale, even after months of living in Italy, and logic dictated that the scar there wouldn’t be as noticeable because of it. But sometimes logic had no place where the human body was concerned, and the scar on his neck was the most visible one of all. It was a bright pink and wider than the others. Even when Henry wore a shirt and tie, it was still visible, a cruel reminder of his past peeking out of his collar.
“Welcome home, Henry,” he muttered to his reflection. “Hopefully you’ll leave in better shape than you did last time.”
“I don’t know why anyone would want to hurt Connie. It’s devastating. Absolutely devastating.”
Emma Pulsifer used the sleeve of her nightgown to dab at her eyes. They were red and raw, the result of a crying jag that had lasted for the better part of an hour. Kat spent that time making calls to the appropriate authorities—county sheriff, prosecutor’s office, state police—and then greeting the endless stream of cops and crime scene techs who arrived at the museum. Now she was back with Emma, who had calmed down enough to talk.
The two of them sat in a dim conference room next to the museum’s back door. It was dry there and mostly free of the smoky residue left by the fire. Just down the hall, the small army of investigators got to work in the main gallery. Kat heard cautious footsteps on the charred floor and the low murmur of voices trying to piece everything together. Occasionally, the incandescent flash of a camera bounced down the hallway, causing Emma to flinch.
“Constance was a widow, right?” Kat asked.
“Just like me,” Emma said. “There weren’t any children.”
“Did she have any other family that you know of? Any immediate next of kin you think we should contact?”
“Not that I know of. The historical society was her family. She devoted her life to it.”
“Is there anyone in the historical society that didn’t get along with Constance?” Kat asked. “Anyone who might want to do her harm?”
The suggestion seemed to horrify Emma, who dropped her jaw before answering, “Of course not. Everyone loved her. There were disagreements, naturally. But nothing that would result in murder.”
She was mistaken there. Kat knew anything could result in murder. A grudge. An affair. A lie that spiraled out of control. Sometimes nothing prompted the killing. Sometimes people just snapped. The ominous warning scrawled on Constance’s hand—THIS IS JUST THE FIRST—pointed in that direction. Kat didn’t want to consider that possibility at the moment, so she asked, “What kind of disagreements are we talking about?”
“Well, this museum, for one,” Emma said. “It’s free to the public, and some members disagreed with that. They thought we should charge admission. We’re always short on funds, and the extra money would help. Connie disagreed. She said the town’s history belonged to everyone. We were just the people who took care of it.”
“And what did you think?”
“It didn’t matter what I thought. Connie was the president. She had the final say.”
Kat leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. “How many members does the historical society have? I know there were you and Constance. Who else?”
“It was just the five of us. Father Ron is the secretary. Claude Dobson is the treasurer. And Mayor Hammond is the honorary member, as were all the mayors before him.”
Kat had seen Father Ron and the mayor outside while the fire was still raging. As far as she knew, Claude Dobson, a retired high school history teacher, wasn’t with them. She wasn’t sure if that worked in his favor or not.
“When was the last time you saw Constance?”
“Tonight.” Emma checked her watch, seeing they had entered a new day. “I mean, last night.”
“What time was that?”
“A little before eight. I drove past the museum and saw the lights were still on. I popped in and found Connie still here, just like I thought.”
“In the gallery?”
“In her office. It’s across the hall.”
Kat looked past Emma to the doorway behind her. An office sat on the other side of the hallway, its door closed. Someone had been smart enough to criss-cross it with police tape.
“I’m assuming she was alone,” she said.
“It was just Connie at her desk, as usual.”
“What did you two talk about?”
“Chitchat, mostly,” Emma said. “I asked if she planned on going to the Chamber of Commerce fund-raiser later.”
The fund-raiser was the premier social event of the year in Perry Hollow, which wasn’t saying much. It probably looked like a rinky-dink affair to people from more metropolitan areas, but in a town where most wedding receptions were held in the Elks Lodge, the fund-raiser was a very big deal. Those who could afford it put on their best clothes, sipped cocktails, and gossiped the night away. Kat had been invited but politely declined the offer. She wasn’t good at schmoozing, nor did she enjoy it. Besides, it had been movie night with James—part of her renewed push to spend more time with him. That night’s selection was Toy Story, one of his favorites.
“Is the fund-raiser where you were headed when you passed the museum?”
Emma’s nod turned into a flinch as another burst of flashbulbs shot down the hall. “It was. Connie told me she’d be there in a little while. But she never showed.”
“Were any other members of the historical society there?”
“Yes,” Emma said. “All of us.”
“What time did it end?”
“I’m not sure. I left close to midnight. The others were still there.”
The fire, Kat had learned, was first reported by Dave and Betty Freeman, who saw it from their bedroom window. The 911 call was made at 12:52. Whoever was still at the fund-raiser at that time was in the clear. Emma Pulsifer, however, wasn’t one of them.
“Where was the fund-raiser held this year?”
“Maison D’Avignon,” Emma said, referring to the French restaurant that had helped turn Perry Hollow from a crumbling mill town into something slightly more upscale. It was located on Main Street, five blocks up and four blocks over from the museum.
“And did you pass the museum on your way home?”
“I took a different route.”
“Did you stop anywhere along the way? A place where someone else could verify your presence. A gas station, perhaps? Or maybe at the ATM outside Commonwealth Bank.”
“No. I went straight home.” Suspicion crept into Emma’s voice. “And I don’t see why any of this matters.”
“I’m just trying to place your whereabouts when the fire started.”
“I was in bed,” Emma said, tugging absently on her pink nightgown. “I heard the sirens, looked out the window, and saw the flames. I didn’t even know it was the museum that was on fire until I got closer.”
Since Emma was also