They fussed for a few minutes with their coffees. Zachary wrapped his fingers around his mug, waiting for the coffee to cool and his fingers to warm. It felt good. Comforting. He waited for Molly to begin her story.
“You probably think that I’m just being a fussy old lady,” she said. “Imagining something sinister when it was just an accident.”
“Not at all. Why don’t you tell me why you don’t think it was an accident?”
“I’m not sure at all,” she clarified. “Maybe they’re right. Maybe it was an accident. It isn’t that I doubt their findings…” she trailed off. “Not really. I know they had to do an autopsy and all that. We waited for months for them to come back with the manner of death. I thought that once they ruled, everyone would feel better.”
“But you still have doubts?”
“I’m worried for my daughter.”
Zachary blinked at her and waited for more.
“She’s not well. I had hoped that once they released the body… and after the memorial… and after the manner of death was announced… each milestone, I thought, it would get better. It would be easier for her, but…” Molly shook her head. “She’s getting worse and worse. Time isn’t helping.”
“Your daughter was Declan’s mother.”
“Yes. Of course.”
“What’s her name?”
“Isabella Hildebrandt,” Molly said, her brows drawn down like he should have known that. “You know. The Happy Artist.”
Zachary had heard of The Happy Artist. She was on TV and was popular among the locals. Zachary didn’t know whether she was syndicated nationally or just on one of the local stations. She had a painting instruction show every Sunday morning, and people awaited her next show like a popular soap. Most of the people Zachary knew who watched the show didn’t paint and never intended to take it up. She was an institution.
“Oh, yes,” Zachary agreed. “Of course, I know The Happy Artist. I didn’t put the names together.”
“When it was in the news, they said who she was. They said it was The Happy Artist’s child.”
“Sure. Of course,” Zachary agreed. He rubbed the dark stubble along his jaw. He should have gone home to shave and clean up before meeting with Molly. He looked like he’d been on a three-day stakeout. He had been on a three-day stakeout. “I’m sorry. I didn’t follow the story very closely. That’s good for you; it means I don’t have a lot of preconceived ideas about the case.”
She looked at him for a minute, frowning. Reconsidering whether she really wanted to hire him? That wouldn’t hurt his feelings.
“You were going to tell me about your daughter?” Zachary prompted. “I can understand how devastated she must be by her son’s death.”
“No. I don’t think you can,” Molly said flatly.
Zachary was taken aback. He shrugged and nodded, and waited for her to go on.
“Isabella has a history of… mental health issues. She was the one supervising Declan when he disappeared, and the guilt has been overwhelming for her.”
That made perfect sense. Zachary sipped at his coffee, which had cooled enough not to scald him.
Molly went on. “I think… as horrible as it may sound… that it would be a relief for her if it turned out that Declan was taken from the yard, instead of just having wandered away.”
“That may be, but how likely is that? Surely the police must have considered the possibility, and I can’t manufacture evidence for your daughter, even if it would ease her mind.”
“No… I realize that. I’m not expecting you to do anything dishonest. Just to investigate it. Read over the police reports. Interview witnesses again. Just see… if there’s any possibility that there was… foul play. A third-party interfering, even if it was nothing malicious.”
“I assume you know most of the details surrounding the case.”
“Yes, of course.”
“How likely do you think it is that the police missed something? Did they seem sloppy or like they didn’t care? Did you think there were signs of foul play that they brushed off?”
“No.” Molly gave a little shrug. “They seemed perfectly competent.”
Zachary was silent. It wouldn’t be difficult to read over the police reports and talk to the family. Was there any point?
“The only thing is…” Molly trailed off.
As impatient as Zachary was to get out of there, he knew it was no good pushing Molly to give it up any faster. She already knew she sounded crazy for asking him to reinvestigate a case where he wasn’t going to be able to turn up anything new. For no reason, other than that it might help her daughter to come to terms with the child’s death. He looked around the room. There were no pictures of Molly’s husband, even old ones. There was no sign she had raised Isabella or any other children there. There were several pictures of a couple with a little child. Declan and Isabella and whatever the father’s name was. There was one picture of Declan himself, occupying its own space, a little memorial to her lost grandson. There were no pictures of anyone else, so Zachary could only assume Isabella was an only child and Declan the only grandchild.
“Declan was afraid of water.”
Zachary turned his eyes back to her. He considered. It wasn’t totally inconceivable that a child afraid of the water would drown. He wouldn’t know how to swim. If he fell in, he would panic, flail, and swallow water, rather than staying calm enough to float. Molly wiped at a tear.
“How afraid of the water was he?” Zachary asked.
“He wouldn’t go near the water. He was terrified. He wouldn’t have gone to the pond by himself.”
“How tall was he?”
Molly gave a little shrug. “He was almost five years old. Three feet?”
“How steep were the banks of the pond and what was the terrain and foliage like?” He knew he would have to look at it for himself.
“I don’t know what you want to know… there wasn’t any
