The Ria Quinn Mysteries, Volumes 1 - 3

By Regina Clarke

BOOK 1: Hidden in Stone--A legacy that sets her up for life from a relative she never knew existed…A secret that began at a boarding school and haunted someone who wanted revenge…An ancient circle of stones that unravels it all…On a cold March day, Ria Quinn, amateur archaeologist, arrives in Shokan Falls in upstate New York to claim an inheritance—but who was Aunt Harriet, her benefactor? No one she has ever heard of! Ria discovers there is a mysterious, prehistoric stone circle in the nearby woods that has an impossible connection to the girl's boarding school her aunt attended thirty years before. Along with this, on her first day she finds a dead body in the snow, gets an anonymous call in the night, and encounters a set of quirky townspeople with too many secrets. How is she supposed to make sense of any of it? When a second victim is found, Ria wonders if she should just return to London, where until recently she had a lowly job as a film researcher with no dead bodies lying around, no real ones, anyway.

Yet against the sheriff's orders that she stay clear of his work, Ria intends to find out who the killer is and what link the ancient stone circle has to her aunt's past.

Hailey, the golden retriever who befriends her, is a joy to have near, reading Beowulf in Old English keeps her calm, and she finds the local sheriff more than easy on the eyes, even if he does find her irritating. Those things, together with the gorgeous and ancient Shawangunk and Catskill mountain ranges of the Hudson River Valley, already have a hold on her.

But her desire to get at the truth threatens someone in Shokan Falls, someone who is willing to put her life at risk.

BOOK 2: Messenger Out of Time--During the annual Halloween festival in Shokan Falls, Ria Quinn discovers a prehistoric peat bog on the outskirts of town. It lies near an abandoned state hospital that was originally built as an insane asylum. As an amateur archaeologist exploring artifacts in Britain, Ria had come across unstable bogs before, places where ancient bodies lay hidden beneath. She just has to check this one out. Only, when she takes a few careful steps across it, the body of a woman surfaces, one Ria knows has not spent millennia in such a watery grave.

Ria is pulled into a mystery that inextricably links the woman in the bog to the asylum and to a Native American legend drawn out of the landscape of the Hudson River Valley. Despite the wishes (and orders) of local Sheriff Gareth Matheson and resistance from the mayor of Shokan Falls, she cannot help but investigate it all, with her golden retriever Hailey at her side.

BOOK 3: The Singing Stones--A consciousness-raising group is holding their retreat at the Merlyn Inn. Their plan for a fire ceremony in the meadow across Druid Lane makes innkeeper Deidre frantic, until Ria agrees to help. When a lute-player she meets at the retreat persuades Ria to join him in exploring an ancient boulder field behind the inn, he shows her how the stones ring in bell-like tones when tapped with a hammer. While clambering over the field, they are shocked to discover the bludgeoned body of a man in a business suit, a hammer beside him that has been used for much more than tapping on the stones.

Seeing a phone video of a hooded figure also digging through the boulder field, Ria and friends go there and witness the same figure, only to end up scaring them away. Yet her presence and her constant questions have awakened someone else's curiosity. Whoever it is wants whatever it is the stones are hiding, and Ria knows he is not done yet.

She feels safe in her home with her precious golden retriever Hailey at her side—but is she?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Crossing Paths Press
• Release date: Nov 11, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215544433

Book preview

THE

Ria Quinn Mysteries

COLLECTION

Regina Clarke

CrossingPathsPress5.jpg

Table of Contents

Hidden In Stone

Messenger Out Of Time

The Singing Stones

Other Books by the Author

About the Author

A picture containing text, outdoor Description automatically generated

HIDDEN IN STONE

Copyright © 2019 by Regina Clarke

All rights reserved.

Imprint: Crossing Paths Press

This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher, except in the form of brief quotations in critical articles or reviews.

Quotation and translation from Beowulf courtesy of Dr Benjamin Slade,

Linguistics, University of Utah

https://slade.jnanam.net

[e-mail]

Cover illustration and design by Brenda Clarke

See her art at https://www.flickr.com/photos/brenda-starr/

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And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge?

― Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Title and Copyright

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Epilogue

Dear Reader

Acknowledgments

MapFinal.png

Town Map courtesy of Melissa Zavala

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CHAPTER I

The 4:59 train from Newcastle upon Tyne pulled into Euston station in a driving rain. Honoria Quinn sighed. Scenes of where she had just been flashed through her mind. The rock art of Northumberland. Climbing hills under a blue sky to see the cup and ring and spiral formations that revealed a prehistoric landscape. Absolute joy.

She gathered up her belongings and stepped down to the platform. It would be a zoo trying to get a cab at this hour, not to mention she had no umbrella.

Ria, Ria! Here I am, wait!

She turned in astonishment to see her flatmate pushing through the crowd toward her. Emma was hard to miss, being six feet tall with a coffee complexion and long, flaming red hair, courtesy of her Irish mother. She was frantically waving one hand while moving people gently aside with the other.

Thank heavens I caught you, she said when she finally got close.

What on earth are you doing here?

Ask me twice, I’ll tell you! I’d much rather still be at the pub with Jamie and he’s none too happy with me taking off. But they won’t stop calling. And you up there excavating somewhere and you won’t take your phone with you on these expeditions so how could I reach you? They said you have to be there in three days and must call them tonight. I said you were expected back today and thank heavens you are. I’ve brought the letter they sent. Emma rummaged in her handbag.

Who won’t stop calling? I’m not going anywhere, thank you very much. I’ve just got home. Come on, I need a coffee and then you can tell me what you’re going on about. Ria hefted her backpack over one shoulder and headed with her overnight case toward a small café a few yards away in the concourse.

They’re solicitors, Ria, Emma continued as they walked. Well, they call themselves lawyers, being Americans, which they are. It sounds really serious.

Sitting down at a small table near a window overlooking the entrance floor below, Ria ordered a coffee for herself and a tea for Emma, both of which arrived in small paper bags along with a carafe of hot water, a small stainless steel container of milk, and a collection of sugar packets. Emma at last dug out a thick, somewhat damp but still sealed envelope, and handed it over.

I got caught in the rain coming here but since it’s typed and not handwritten it seems okay. Oh, do open it!

Ria smiled as she looked over at her friend. Emma was leaving soon with Jamie on a tour of South Africa and to meet his family. She’d miss having her enthusiasm around.

Fine, but first, tell me about those calls.

Three times yesterday and as many again today. All they did was give me their name, their company name, as if I could forget it after the second time, and said you had to call them because it was an emergency. You can imagine what it felt like not being able to reach you, I mean, after all, I didn’t even know what province you’d gone to!

Northumberland, the Neolithic cups and rings, some fellwalking out on the moorlands. I told you about it.

You didn’t write it down, did you, so then how could I know? Well? Emma pointed to the letter while sipping her tea.

Whatever casual message Ria expected, certain as she was that Emma had exaggerated the news, the actual contents of the letter when she opened and read it left her astonished:

Dear Ms. Honoria Quinn—Your aunt Harriet Anna Bellthorpe has left you her house at 43 Rowan Way, Shokan Falls, New York, together with all its contents. It is a relatively large property consisting of a main house with nine rooms and two outlying buildings on two wooded acres. Our valuation of $700,000 is preliminary, as we need you present to sign the necessary papers and to determine both inheritance taxes and property assignment. Since you are the sole beneficiary and assigned executor of the estate, there will be no need for a prolonged court assessment. Please arrive no later than March 14th to do a walk-through of the property with us before the signing process is completed. Inform us on receipt of this letter of your plans. Telephone us at your earliest convenience.

She was finding it hard to process what it said. Who sends real letters anymore, anyway? American lawyers, obviously. Bunker, Strafe, and Goodsen, LLP in particular. She looked through the documents attached that included a link to their website, a copy of a title deed, and the email address of the State Bar of New York to verify the profile and integrity of the law firm.

Well, what does it say? Emma said, her eyes lighted up with anticipation.

Ria read the message aloud to her and put the letter down, staring at it.

Emma, I’ve never even heard of Harriet Bellthorpe! There are no Bellthorpes in the family and I am certain no Americans. So if she was my aunt, that had to have been her married name, but I don’t recall hearing about any relative named Harriet, alive or dead.

What are you going to do? You have to call them right away, tonight! I mean, you will, won’t you?

Ria had a job as a production assistant and researcher at Dracon Follies, a small and largely unsuccessful film studio, and very little of her vacation time was left. She’d already used up most of it going to visit prehistoric artifacts found on the hillsides of Northumberland. There were just enough days to manage a quick jaunt to Spain, or maybe, to shake things up, to Tuscany. She’d been looking forward to either, given the unusually cold winter England had been having. Only, the preliminary figure on the value of her heretofore unknown aunt’s property wasn’t something one could ignore—700,000 dollars, which she figured quickly on her phone translated into something in the range of 550,000 pound sterling at the going rate. Accustomed as she was to sharing rent with Emma on a three-room flat, and with her share of cost at 725 pounds a month, the idea of owning a nine-room house for the same price as a studio in Notting Hill was rather thrilling.

All right. At the very least I have to know if this is legitimate. It’s quarter to nine here so that makes it what over there?

Oh, I have no idea! We’re on British Summer Time but they wouldn’t be, of course.

Still, the time difference couldn’t be less than five hours. Early enough for their workday, I should think. All right. Here goes.

Ria dialed the international number given in the letter and asked to speak to one of the lawyers. She was met with a voice so dry and formal it brought to mind the image of her former instructor in statistics. A few minutes later she ended the call.

Gads, I couldn’t tell a thing listening to you. All you said was ‘Yes, well, I see, right, fortnight.’ So it is all quite real? Emma asked.

They’ve just booked me on Virgin airlines for the day after tomorrow into New York City. They said a bus—a luxury transport is what they actually said—would be available to drive me up to their town, that is, my aunt’s town, which appears to be somewhere north or near the Hudson River.

Oh, that’s brilliant! An all-expenses-paid trip across the pond. But why—I mean, did they say why it had to happen so fast? You must be knackered from your trip up north.

Ria drank most of her coffee that was already cooling. Apparently buyers are arriving, maybe from Saudi Arabia, or Qatar, or China or somewhere, I’m not sure. I wanted to wait a fortnight but he said two weeks is too long. The good thing is I’m back here in a few days, and according to his calculations, when I sell the house I’ll be a lot richer than I am now.

You’re taking this very calmly, I must say. Emma was struggling to press the teabag with a spoon in hopes of getting a stronger brew.

I’ll be checking their credentials before I go anywhere, but even so, I rather think I believe him and I’m in a bit of a shock. I haven’t imagined myself owning a house, much less going overseas to sell one. You’re leaving soon as well, going to South Africa...meeting Jamie’s parents, going on that photo safari, diving off the coast, right? You’ll be gone before I return.

True enough. We’ll be there three months. But write to me, call, anything. Oh, Ria! You’ll be able to manage a much better flat to live in. Should I look for other lodgings before I go? Jamie’s almost but not quite ready for a merger.

No, of course not. I hardly know what to think, much less what to do. But any decision I make has to be a careful one, that I do know. Ria sat back and looked out the window at the passing foot traffic, people whose bedraggled appearance showed they had been caught by the rain. It was all so very strange. But she did feel a frisson of excitement. Things had been predictable and comfortable and routine for a long, long time. Something new was waiting for her, and she had the sudden, uneasy yet rather thrilling conviction her life was about to change forever.

Three days later, having left an unhappy film producer behind her, Ria found herself on a tour bus to Shokan Falls direct from New York City, courtesy of Bunker, Strafe, and Goodsen, LLP. It wasn’t her first trip over, but her first one outside the city. The countryside looked as cold as home, snow everywhere, but a very different landscape. They were driving through the Shawangunk range, a part of the Appalachian Mountains, or so the tour guide said. She had to admit, it made for some stunning scenery, even in winter. What would it be like living in this place, she wondered, but quickly brushed the thought away. She was here to get the valuation, sell the property, and return to London with enough cash for life. At least, it felt that way.

A Mr. Steffens was waiting for her when Ria reached the town of Shokan Falls. He held out a cup of tea when she stepped off the bus.

Where are the lawyers? she asked him after the amenities were done. She sipped on the lukewarm tea, wishing it were coffee.

I’m a lawyer’s assistant, he said, a hurt look crossing his face. He looked twelve. He pointed to her paper cup. They said tea’s your national drink. I have sugar packets if you need them. The others are waiting for you at the house, even though it’s a Saturday. We’re usually closed on weekends.

A few minutes later they were in his jeep, her overnight luggage in the back, driving along Rowan Way. To Ria it felt as if she had entered a medieval forest, trees arching above.

Ten minutes later he turned right onto a dirt trail. Another hundred yards and a brilliant vista opened up before her. She knew what she was looking at, having had the same vista described to her on the tour bus—the Catskill Mountains. And in front of the view was the house Ria had traveled over three thousand miles to inventory.

It made no sense to her. She never usually swore, but the only thing Ria could think of was, who was Harriet Bellthorpe and why the hell did she leave me all this?

A beveled stained glass and oak door marked the entrance. Above it was a small, wrought-iron balcony set against the white stucco surface of the house. To her right stood a massive oak tree, surrounded by a stone bench.

Please hurry. They’re waiting. Mr. Steffens had the door open. She walked through a short corridor into a room painted in shades of teal and white with a cathedral ceiling and the same wide view of the Catskills in the distance. Two men stood near the window, one in a pinstripe suit and the other in jeans and a flannel shirt. They came toward her and shook hands. Pinstripe was the lawyer named Strafe and jeans was the lawyer named Goodsen.

This property has to be worth a lot more than seven hundred thousand of your dollars, Ria blurted out.

Goodsen laughed. He had a welcoming informality.

Strafe looked as worried as Steffen. We are planning to increase the valuation before the arrival of the buyers I told you about on the phone, who are due here in three days. They are aware this could happen once you, as legal owner, have seen the property. The price has not yet been formally appraised, but we expect that to be in the range of one and a half million. That will be yours to keep, after we take our two percent for managing the estate sale.

You’ll be a millionaire, Honoria, Goodsen said. He had thick black hair and dark brown eyes and the build of a man who spent a lot of time outdoors, with a smile that seemed to light up the room, compared to his rather dour companion.

Please call me Ria. It is rather a surprise, I must say.

Understatement. Had she imagined her name and the word millionaire being used in the same sentence, ever? Had she not had her wits about her, mainly the desire to appear stalwart and nonchalant in the face of extraordinary news, she was sure she would have collapsed on the floor. But we Brits are made of stronger stuff, she reminded herself.

Yes. A surprise. I imagine it is. Goodsen raised an eyebrow and she saw the twitch of a smile, which she chose to ignore.

Ria made a gesture around the room that included the pale blue soft leather sofa behind her, the teak wood furnishings, and the thick oriental rug under her feet. In your letter you said contents were part of the estate—meaning what I see here?

Here, and in all the other rooms, Strafe said, a little impatiently. We have to get back to our offices to host a sales event. I insisted we both come here to greet you, since Harriet was one of our best clients, and I instructed our staff to have electricity and heat turned on for you. Full Internet service is already installed. The pantry and refrigerator contain a variety of foods that should suffice for your temporary stay. He pulled some papers out of the briefcase he was holding. We need you to canvass the whole house and tell us what selling price you want. These are the documents you need to read and sign—call if you have any questions. My secretary will relay them to me if I’m not in the office.

What Aaron means, so it’s clear, is that you’re welcome to stay here overnight while you look over the papers, Goodsen said. We assumed that would be easiest for you. You’ll want to read the fine print of the estate valuation, of course. There’s a rental car in the garage, however, if you do want to go anywhere, so you’re not stranded. Your own phone may work well enough, but we’re in a semi-rural area and roaming service is a hazard. Take this for a while as a backup. He handed her a new phone. I’ve configured it and posted speed numbers for Aaron and me.

Why, thank you. Very kind of you.

Strafe was Aaron. Ria wanted to ask Goodsen his own first name. Somehow in the introductions she’d missed it.

As if he read her mind, he turned as the two of them reached the front door. You can call me Sam. By the way, there’s a trunk in one of the back rooms. We had a locksmith open it and it’s full of old photographs. A package is there that should interest you—we didn’t open that. The trunk is currently part of the inventory. That goes for anything you see, of course. By rights, you own it all. With a smile that left her feeling a little breathless, or maybe it was his reference to her sudden wealth, he was out the door that Mr. Steffens was holding open. Dropping her overnight case on the hall floor, the young man followed his bosses out and Ria was alone. She picked up the papers Strafe had left on the glass coffee table, but it was impossible to focus on them.

Goodness me, she said out loud to the room. She had the feeling she had entered an alternate reality, as unknown and unexpected as if she’d been transported to King Arthur’s court.

The kitchen was all pale wood and chrome and appliances, including an espresso machine. Harriet Bellthorpe, whoever she was, had not stinted on having top of the line. Not ready to read an instruction manual on how to make an espresso, Ria opted for the kettle and a bean grinder. She knew how to handle those. She took the mug of rich, dark coffee back into the living room and gazed out at the mountains while she sipped on it. She wasn’t ready to explore anything, and there were hours left in the day. Maybe she’d just sit on the baby blue soft leather sofa and do nothing.

She really might have stayed that way, but Goodsen’s last words drew her like a magnet. A trunk full of old photographs. How could she resist? Ria finished her coffee and went off to inspect the rest of the house, but hardly took it in, extravagantly beautiful as it seemed, until she came to the room Sam must have meant. It had no décor to speak of. It had been used to store furniture and lamps and there were boxes stacked along the walls. She wondered if she’d have to sort through those and realized she had to at least open them, if the lawyers hadn’t done that already. She was hoping they had.

And there was the trunk, off to one side under a small window. It opened easily, as Sam had said it would, and held stacks of photos, most of them sepia-colored. Tucked in a corner was the package Sam had mentioned, her name clearly on the outside. Opening the seal, Ria found a camera, an old model Kodak disposable with flash. To her surprise there was a finished roll of film inside, the little window showing the number twelve, and a note.

"My dear Honoria—So you have found your way here. Now, to my way of thinking, a little mystery in life is good for us. This camera is still in fine working order. I used it a few weeks ago to add one more picture, as you will see. The photos were taken along time ago and I had forgotten to develop them. When I found this camera at the bottom of the trunk, I knew right away what I wanted to do with it.

It was unsigned, but of course it must be from her aunt.

They still made disposables, Ria thought. But did anyone know how to develop film from the 1990s anymore? On sudden impulse she took the camera into the living room, picked up the phone Sam had given her, and hit the speed dial for his number. He answered before the first ring had ended.

Not having any trouble already, I hope? he said.

No. Nothing like that. It was mid afternoon and outside the small window the sky had filled with clouds. Just a long shot. Is there anywhere up here—I mean, is there a camera shop that could develop a roll of film, a really old film in a disposable unit?

You found one in that trunk, I bet. No, you’ll probably have to send the camera off somewhere. Wait a minute— There was a loud banging, a shout, and the sound of breaking glass, then silence.

Sorry about that. I’m home getting some new wiring installed and they’ve just managed to push through a window. Listen, as it happens I do know someone who might be able to help you. Manny Fallon is a friend who dabbles in old cameras—has a great collection that goes back to the 1920s, if you like that sort of thing. Spends most of his days in a darkroom or converting what he finds into digital. I’ll give him a ring, tell him to expect you. You can drive the rental—he’s close to town. Here’s his address and directions. As Sam rattled them off to her, Ria felt a sudden apprehension. Maybe whatever was on the film wasn’t for her to see—wasn’t for anyone to see. Why wouldn’t it have been developed already?

Thanks. You make it easy, she said.

Call me, anytime. Whatever you need, I’m here. Any thoughts on the house?

To tell the truth—the place is growing on me already.

I thought that might happen, he said. Good, he added.

Manny was ready and waiting when Ria arrived at his house. Apparently helping her took precedence over his attempts to build a very crooked stone wall for his garden.

I’ll see if there’s anything on this, he said, eagerly taking the roll of film from her. He sat her down in his kitchen and told her to help herself to coffee or tea or orange juice, whatever she wanted. Ria waited and looked out the window. It was cold, but the sun had come out again and chased away the clouds.

Manny was back a half hour later, with a strange expression on his face.

So soon? That was fast. Was the film empty, after all?

He pulled up a chair and sat down. No. In fact, there are twelve photos, good as gold. Nice and clear, I mean. They’ve got just a slight purple color overlay—happens in old film.

So are you going to show them to me?

Oh, yes, sure—here they are.

He seemed to hesitate as he handed some over, or so she thought. At first glance each one was the same, a young woman leaning against the front of the very house Ria had inherited. So maybe it was Harriet!

Manny handed her a magnifying glass. Look closer, he advised.

She did, checking each photo carefully, and then understood why he had hesitated. Each photo was a picture of someone who looked like her. It was a startling resemblance. The woman could have been her twin.

It wasn’t possible. What on earth was going on?

Manny took out another photo and studied her face as if trying to decide what kind of person she was. Then he handed that one to her as well. It was a photo of a paragraph of writing.

If you have received and developed the film, it is because I am dead, though by now that is no surprise to you. So be it. The time was bound to come. I’m sorry we never met one another. Our parents acted out of a supreme selfishness in giving us both up for adoption, an act that was never explained to either of us, given their premature demise from malaria on one of their jungle jaunts not long after you were born, but I think we both have done fairly well for ourselves, all things considered. Financially I’ve done better than you, being so much older, but in choosing isolation I chose also to stay away from you, though I had learned of your existence in ways too convoluted to describe. You were born and adopted in my twenty-ninth year. I regret staying apart from you, but I had my reasons, not the least of which I now recognize as grief. But know the house is yours, Honoria. I hope you’ll keep it, not sell out to the vultures that will show up. The lawyers believe I am your aunt, but they have no power to take the house from you without your consent. I know how to secure property. Take care, little sister. Harriet.

Ria laughed out loud. A sister. A beautiful, wonderful sister. She felt she knew her just from the letter, knew all about her. How grand indeed had they met!

Manny looked relieved. So these things mean something to you?

They do now, Ria said.

As she got into the rental, she pressed speed dial again for Sam. He answered again on the first ring.

How is it driving on the right side of the road? Manny help you out?

Clearly it is the wrong side of the road, but I seem to have managed. And Manny did help me, indeed. Thank you. In truth, I feel I should say this right off, you should know I’m keeping the house, so you’d best tell your buyers. I hope you and Mr. Strafe are not disappointed.

Not at all. At least, I’m not. It sounds interesting. How about telling me the whole story over dinner tonight?

Dinner? She didn’t know the man. And Ria felt a wave of tiredness settle over her.

I’m knackered, really, from the whole journey getting here and the surprise of it all. Thank you, though. I plan to go home—that is, to go back to the house and sleep for ages.

Sure. Makes sense. Like I said, call if you need anything. I’m here.

She started the car and was about to drive away when Manny came running out of the house and hailed her. He thrust another photo through the driver’s open window.

What is this? she asked.

I forgot, there were thirteen photos altogether. It happens sometimes, especially with real old film strips, part of an extra shot gets included. See ya.

Ria held the photo to the light and let out an exclamation of disbelief.

What on earth? It can’t be! she said out loud. But there was no denying what she was looking at.

It was a stone dolmen. The same kind of prehistoric structure she had often seen in her explorations of England and Ireland. Only this one had a sign near it with the name of a town that existed somewhere in the state of New York.

CHAPTER II

It was four o’clock and close to dusk. The only color in the winter landscape was the abandoned railway station near a copse of oak and ash as she drove past, its walls a faded red. The broad, fast-flowing Hudson River lay some miles to the east and the Shawangunk range rose high to the southwest, while the Catskills showed up often at bends in the road. The sun had gone again and the sky looked somewhat threatening.

Ria drove into the center of town and parked outside a diner she’d noticed on her way to Manny’s. She’d been drawn to the American diners in old films about cross-country drives and stopovers, often in noir settings. Those diners always had so many different kinds of people converging in them, so many stories to tell. She wanted time to think, and a cup of coffee would help. Granted, she could go back to the house, but why pass up the experience of a real diner when it was right there? Besides, having people around sometimes made thinking easier. Sometimes.

The place was almost empty. Two men sat talking quietly together in a booth at one end. A mother and small child were eating ice cream at the other. A very old woman sat alone in a booth by herself, digging into her purse. With a feeling of anticipation and satisfaction Ria chose a seat at the counter.

Just passing through? The unsmiling waitress stood holding an order pad. Her wiry gray hair made a halo around her head.

What? Oh, yes I suppose so, in a way. I came over to secure a property. How did you—

Thanks, dearie. Good to know. Whadda you want?

What did she want? Not easy to answer, even though she’d told Sam Goodsen she was keeping the house. She shook her head. That wasn’t what the woman wanted to know.

Hot coffee, please. And some buttered toast—whole wheat if you have it.

Right.

Not so friendly. Not down home, like the movies gave it. Ria sighed and looked around. The diner did have that wonderful chrome trim on the seats and around the counter. There were booths with vinyl backing. There were even old table jukeboxes attached to the wall in each booth, and she could see a standing jukebox in the corner. Too right, she thought, smiling, taking it all in. The noise of the kitchen was loud through the open window dividing it from the serving area. Shelves behind the counter held cups and saucers and rows of glasses of all sizes. Maybe she should have ordered one of their milkshakes. No, not today, but she would before she left town.

The thought startled her. Had she decided to leave? Why tell Sam she was keeping the house, then?

Don’t mind Ella. She really hates her job, and she’s hated it for the past thirty years or so. She was the same when I was in first grade and came in with my mother for a vanilla seltzer.

Ria turned as a man sat down at the counter beside her. In a glance she took in his uniform, the belt and taser, and the holstered gun. If she needed to know more, the badge he was wearing that read Sheriff was a good clue.

You must be the one who inherited the Bellthorpe property, he said.

Good for some, Ella muttered as she put the coffee and plate none too gently in front of Ria.

Remember, Ella, you don’t have to listen if you don’t like what you’re hearing, he said to her. I’ll take a coffee to go and don’t forget to add the sugar for me.

How could I when you remind me a hundred times, she said as she moved away.

He put out his hand to Ria.

Gareth Matheson. County sheriff. I did a survey of the property after Harriet passed on, at her request, and I’ve been keeping an eye on things out there.

So you knew her?

Everyone in these parts did. Your aunt did a lot for us, for the people, for the town.

I never met her. How did you know who I was?

Easy. You’re a dead ringer for Harriet, though a much younger version. Aaron was quite upset not to be able to reach you right away. You were, according to that friend of yours in London, exploring things in the dirt somewhere.

A bit more than that. Excavating at a dig and monitoring strata. Finding Neolithic artifacts.

So you’re an archaeologist?

No, just an amateur. Love at first sight, actually. Ria took a sip of the hot coffee. There, she thought happily, she’d done it, had black coffee in an American diner!

Well, I felt I should introduce myself when I saw you, since Harriet was a good friend. Almost like an aunt to me, when I think of it, in a lot of ways. How long are you staying before you go back to London?

I’m not entirely certain.

Maybe we’ll get to talk again, he said, as Ella handed him his coffee. He pressed the lid down more securely. Nice accent. Bye now.

Ria watched him go out the door. The man was easy on the eyes, with auburn hair that was on the long side and deep-set green eyes. He walked with confidence, something she guessed must come with his job.

Turning on her phone, she began to research the town named on the sign in the photograph Manny had given her. North Salem, NY. The stones were authentic. A Neolithic dolmen called Balanced Rock stood just an hour and a half away from Shokan Falls. More research revealed evidence of both Mesolithic and Paleolithic artifacts and that even habitation shelters had been located in the region. It seemed impossible to her that ancient ruins existed in a place she’d never heard of till now. But what especially intrigued her was why her sister Harriet had taken the photo of a Neolithic burial site—what did that mean?

Outside, the streetlights had come on. Light snow fell against the amber light. She was putting more orange marmalade on her toast when a scream cut into her thoughts. Looking out the window, Ria saw the young woman who had been in the diner earlier. Now she was standing next to a car, hands raised, letting out high-pitched wailing sounds over and over. The two men in the diner kept talking. The old woman looked as if she were asleep. Ria opened the door and ran over to see what was going on. Ella and the cook stayed inside, peering out.

The woman was wearing a pale blue coat and sandals with socks. The car door was open and a little girl was in a child seat, crying uncontrollably. Ria couldn’t see anything causing the woman’s state. She went up to her and shouted the words The baby! The baby is crying! Help her! Instantly the woman stopped screaming and unbuckled her child and began soothing her. Soft sobs were coming from both of them.

What is it? What is wrong? Ria asked in a calm voice.

The woman had an expression of terror on her face. She looked as if she was going to break down again, but she pointed beyond the car into the green verge of the parking lot that ran along one side of the diner.

Ria saw the body right away, and the knife that was plunged into it down to the hilt.

With a sharp intake of breath and against common sense, Ria went closer. It was a man, dressed in jeans and a checked shirt, no jacket, and no shoes or socks. She couldn’t see his face and didn’t dare go further.

Call the police, she said to the woman, who looked at her with fear still in her eyes, but took out her phone.

Her training as a volunteer at dozens of archaeological sites had taught her caution and above all how to avoid contamination of the soil and rock strata and surrounding vegetation. She’d also heard her flatmate Emma describe episodes of American detective shows that she was addicted to, and it was common sense not to obstruct or compromise a crime scene. The one detective show Ria watched for herself, the riveting Vera series on ITV, gave much the same advice.

At that moment a police cruiser rode up and stopped. Gareth Matheson got out and so did a woman in uniform, wearing a police jacket that didn’t hide the fact she was at least seven months pregnant.

Mrs. Soren? My deputy here caught your call. We had some trouble understanding what you said.

When the woman didn’t answer and only buried her face in her child’s hair, Ria pointed to where the body was barely visible in the dying light. Over there, she said. The snow was coming down harder.

Matheson looked as if he wanted to ask what she was doing there but instead he walked over and studied the scene and then came back and spoke to his deputy.

Melissa, get Doc Hammerly up here. And tell the coroner we need a van. You know the drill.

What happened here? he said finally to Ria while his deputy went back to the car to contact dispatch.

The poor woman began screaming. Sounded frightened out of her wits. I was still in the diner so I came out here and saw the body. I told her to call you. Is it someone she knows?

It’s someone we all know. Jeb Harmon. Has a landscaping business. Matheson looked over at the body. Or used to.

At hearing the victim’s name the woman seemed about to erupt again, but the sheriff forestalled her. Annie, I’m calling your husband, okay? You can wait here till he shows up. Probably better you get into the car with Edie with the snow coming down. He gestured for the woman to sit in the front passenger seat with her daughter and patted her shoulder and shut the car door.

I’ll need to talk with you again, as soon as we get this taken care of. He glanced over at the diner. Looks like you’re the only one who came out. Mind waiting in there?

Yes, of course. Ria backed away. It was all too real. A far cry from old bones in burial tombs and 6,000-year-old tools. She’d seen the blood on the body—not as much as she would have expected, but no question, the man was quite dead.

She shivered. She’d worn an unlined jacket and the temperature felt as if it had dropped twenty degrees outside. Happily, the diner was warm when she went in. To her surprise a fresh cup of hot coffee was set near her toast. She looked up and saw Ella staring at her and smiled. The woman didn’t acknowledge her, but the gesture of hot coffee had been sincere. Ria’s one hope was that the sheriff would question her sooner rather than later and she could go home.

Home. The word was unfamiliar. Why did it feel so right?

It was another thirty minutes before Matheson came in. He motioned her over to a booth.

Too many ears in here and the cruiser doesn’t have a working heater, for some confounded reason, or we could talk there.

Ria looked out the window. Arc lights illuminated the parking lot where the body still was. An ambulance had been parked nearby earlier, but now she saw only the police cruiser and the coroner’s van. It looked as if the deputy was directing technicians in doing a search of the immediate area.

Snow’s making it hard to secure the scene but we can’t wait till daylight or there’ll be nothing to find at all. We need evidence. So far, there’s just the body. No tracks, given the snow, no signs of any kind of fight. Still, nothing for you to have to think about. Just run past me again what you saw and did. You can come down to my office tomorrow and write it down for our records.

Ria told him what she had heard and seen and done. He took a few notes and looked up at her.

Not exactly the kind of greeting your aunt would have wished on you.

I know now isn’t the time, but I need to know more about her.

After you leave your statement with my deputy in the morning, come see me. I can talk then, for a few minutes.

Your deputy is rather stalwart, given her condition.

Stalwart? The sheriff chuckled. I’ll tell her you said that. Sergeant Starling is one of the best. Nothing holds her back. This is her third child coming up. She also has a husband who adores her, which helps when she has a long shift and he has to manage the home front. That’s it for now. You take care. Drive slowly out there. Roads aren’t plowed so fast around in these parts. You might want to see if Harriet left some warm clothes in all those closets of hers. That jacket of yours isn’t going to work. We’re still in winter here, even though it’s March, he said as he left.

Ria sighed and finished her third cup of coffee. The day had been long enough, she decided, picking up her purse and venturing outside again. The snow had stopped, the arc lights were still there, but she saw no sign of the sheriff or his deputy. The coroner’s van was gone, too. It still seemed impossible that she had encountered a violent death in such a peaceful setting.

You’re dancing around the words, Ria, she said out loud, something she seemed to have been doing of late. Though in truth, she had to admit she often made a running commentary out loud at dig sites, since it helped her sort out the data. But right here and now she was faced with the truth that a man had been murdered. His life deliberately taken. Like Ötzi the Iceman, she thought, remembering the photos she’d seen of the well-preserved body, apparently also murdered in winter sometime between 3400 and 3100 BCE, excavated in the Italian Alps in 1991. She had often thought of the man’s life, its early end alone in the icy reaches of the mountains, and wondered what that must have been like. Archaeology lent itself to such ruminations. The distant past never seemed truly distant to her.

She’d almost reached her car when a woman appeared under the streetlight, wild black hair and wrapped either in a blanket or a cape, it was hard to tell.

You’re the new owner of the Bellthorpe property! she shouted.

Ria stared at her. If most small towns in America were anything like Shokan Falls, they weren’t far afield from the English village, where privacy—and secrets—had a short shelf life. She’d gone nowhere but the diner so far, but that hadn’t slowed down the communication network or whatever it was called here. Random words flashed through her mind. She’d always been the one to rewrite scripts at the film studio for Draco Follies, and alternative wording was often advisable. Maybe the right word was rumor mill, or gossip lane? Hearsay? Tidings?

Excuse me! Did you hear me? Impatience threaded the question.

Yes. I fear I did. How can I help you?

Harriet said I could have some of her things. Nothing special, just some trinkets! That sheriff won’t let me in to get them. But you can.

In spite of herself, as she stood in the parking lot where she’d already been forced to stay for far too long, Ria wanted to laugh. It didn’t seem like a good idea.

Why don’t you tell me who you are? she said in a soothing voice. I’ll check with the sheriff. And the lawyers, she added.

Marbury! Alice Marbury! Don’t you forget it! You’ll hear from me again! With that, Alice walked away into the dark shadows beyond the parking lot.

Well, Ria said aloud. Well, she repeated. Apparently a local citizen found dead took second place to trinkets from Harriet’s house. But Ria had excellent intuition, a great advantage while exploring ancient ruins, and doubted Alice was after trinkets. She also had strong doubts Alice had been Harriet’s friend. The sheriff would be able to tell her when she saw him in the morning. For now, going home, taking a long hot bath, wrapping up in a terrycloth robe, and making herself a long overdue tea was her only agenda. She’d take her meal into the living room and turn on the telly and see what was happening in the great wide world and banish thoughts of that poor murdered man.

An hour later that was exactly where she was, though after some searching with the remote she’d exchanged the news, which was alas, so violently the same, for a 1954 film on YouTube that starred an actor she’d seen in several old movies. It was titled Secret of the Incas and had the words the original Indiana Jones plastered across it. The actor wore a hat that looked exactly the same as the one worn by the lead in the 1983 movie, and the actor was also extremely good-looking. Even better, part of the movie had actually been filmed at Machu Picchu in Peru, before hordes of tourists had taken the place over as a destination. How could she resist watching it?

When her phone rang halfway through she almost didn’t answer it, until she realized it had to be Sam, since no one else had the number, except maybe Strafe and he was unlikely to call. She hit the answer button.

At first she heard nothing, but then there was a steady tapping, very faint, and what sounded like a distant chime.

Sam? Can you hear me?

Again there was only the tapping, a sudden sound like wind through the trees, and the phone went dead. Immediately she hit Sam’s speed dial, which sent her into voice mail.

How strange, she thought. Although, he could be engaged at dinner somewhere and didn’t want the phone interrupting him. But who with?

The thought amused her. You turned him down, Ria, remember?

She went back to the movie. It reminded her of another old film, King Solomon’s Mines. Richard Carlson was in that, wasn’t he? She owned most of that actor’s movies, the science fiction ones. Especially They Came From Outer Space. Perfect movie, to her mind, along with the 1956 Invasion of the Body Snatchers and The Day the Earth Stood Still from 1951. The British did drama and humor wonderfully well, but science fiction belonged to the Americans, at least in the 50s, as far as Ria was concerned. That had continued to be one good thing about working in the unfortunate and persistent chaos at Dracon Follies. She got to watch all the movies she wanted—for research purposes, of course, so she could assist the producer better. Most modern science fiction cinema left her cold. Increasingly it was all special effects, not story.

Don’t be so narrow-minded, she chided herself out loud, and meant it. Films were one of her passions. No sense being stuffy about it, though a reasonable discernment was often warranted.

When the lead couple wafted off into the sunset, she took her dishes into the kitchen, rinsed them, and left them in the dishwasher, though she really ought to hand wash them and leave them to dry, as was her habit.

It was only nine-thirty, but tiredness swept over her. Ria lay down on a high bed in one of the guest rooms and pulled a quilt up over herself and was asleep in seconds.

The next morning the sun was dazzling on the thin layer of snow that lay over the back yard. Outside the window she saw snow on the peaks of the Catskills and wondered if people went skiing there. More to the point, could those mountains hold some of the artifacts she’d read about in the region? Rather disconnected questions like that came to her often when she encountered something new. Ria assumed she simply had an enquiring mind. Emma had suggested she was fixated on relating everything in the world to either movies or archaeology, in either order.

Over a breakfast of poached eggs and a blueberry muffin she found in the refrigerator, the question of what she was going to do filled her mind. Yet surely it was straightforward. She would rent the house out, like a holiday home. That should be easy enough, and no doubt bring in a good income in American dollars. In England, she could live in a posh flat using that rent money, and occasionally visit Shokan Falls to check on things. So life could go on much as it always had before.

Really? Is that what you want, Ria? she said, hearing the faint echo of her words against the kitchen walls.

No. Face it, she told herself, you aren’t all that keen to go back to London. Yet how strange a thought that was. A few days ago she could never have imagined herself doing anything else. Now, knowing Emma would be away, she had nothing to rush back to except her job and it was obvious she didn’t need that any longer. Filmmaking fascinated her. The film company did not.

More than that, she had no relatives in any part of Britain, being an only child, and her parents—her adoptive parents, that is, were also only children and had passed away five years before. There were a few casual friends, but no one close who would miss her, or vice versa. What exactly would she do on her return there, anyway? Why did London suddenly feel less like home than where she was right now? How could two days make such a difference?

She knew the answer, or part of it. Harriet. That was it. Her sister. So why not stay here awhile, a few months, at least? Then she could make up her mind, and Emma would be back from South Africa, too, and no doubt offer some words of advice on the subject. Give it a try. Yes. She owed that to Harriet. It felt right.

With that decision made, Ria thought about what she should do next. Visiting the police station had to be top of the list. Then let the lawyers—Sam, anyway—know she was staying a while. Maybe see if the local library carried original documents about the archaeology in the area, or links she could explore. Had more dolmens been discovered? Burial mounds? Perhaps some ancient tools?

A quick trip to the police station told her Sheriff Matheson and Deputy Starling were out. She’d have to find out who the wild woman at the diner was another time. She wrote down her report of what she had seen and done at the diner for an officer at the front desk. Asking for directions to the library, she was told she couldn’t miss it.

When she got there, it was easy to understand why. The building was hewn out of uneven blocks of weathered gray stone, with a massive wooden doorway and an arched portico, reminding her of a medieval monastery. Above the door an engraved plaque read Enter, all those of you who truly seek wisdom. Inside, she approached the reference librarian, who sat behind a polished oak counter. Her nameplate read Sylvia Matheson, Head of Reference Resources and her green eyes gave her a distinct, though older, resemblance to the sheriff.

Excuse me, I’d like to look at any documents you might have from the very early twentieth century on archaeology in this region.

Sylvia looked up and studied her without saying a word. Ria was puzzled and opened her mouth to repeat her request when the woman chuckled. So you’re the one Gareth’s been talking about. My son said you were over here, up at Harriet’s house. He also told me you’re an archaeologist, from the U.K.

Strictly amateur.

Sylvia held out her hand in greeting. Your accent gave you away. A pleasure to meet you. To tell the truth, I’m sorry but I doubt we’ve got any material like that here, if it even exists. Can’t say I’ve heard about it, anyway. We did clear out old storage boxes that had been in the basement about three years ago, to avoid their getting damaged by flooding. Sent them all over to the Historical Society, shelf space in the library being at a premium. I’ll wager those old books and files are in no particular order to this day and we’ve no way of knowing what they contain.

Ria started to ask where the Historical Society might be when a man came up and interrupted her and spoke to Sylvia, ignoring Ria’s presence.

You said you had the books I wanted, but you don’t. They’re not on the shelf. Does that mean they’re stolen? Or did you just send me to the wrong place? I’m not interested in your provincial stalling. I need those books.

Sylvia folded her arms and said nothing, just watched him.

Well? Cat got your tongue?

Ria was about to object to his rudeness, something that was an instant trigger for her, but Sylvia didn’t need any help.

Tell you what. You’re staying at the Merlyn Inn over on Druid Lane, isn’t that what you told me earlier? Such a lovely B&B. I know the owner, Deidre Summers. Makes beautiful quilts—have you see them on the walls there? Now, Deidre’s a savvy lady, so she’s got much better wifi than we have here. She even has computers she’ll lend you if you need one. I’m sure you can look those books up online, even order them. I can’t say why they aren’t on our reference shelves but I’ll be checking that, for sure. Meantime, you can go to Google Books on the Internet and they might just have what you’re looking for. Bye now.

Sylvia turned away from him and focused on Ria. Let me give you directions to the Historical Society.

Merlyn Inn on Druid Lane? Ria repeated.

Sylvia chuckled. You’ll understand when you meet Deidre.

The man waited a few moments, then let out an expletive and went out the door, trying to slam it, which was difficult since it worked on a slow, silent hinge.

"Some people just pass through town, thank heavens. Come visit me again, Honoria.’

Call me Ria, please.

A few minutes later she was standing outside the Historical Society and watching the crowd in front of it, everyone dressed as witches, ghosts, the devil, and more. It wasn’t Halloween. Not even close.

CHAPTER III

Look! There’s the new owner of the Bellthorpe place. She can decide for us fair and square.

To her dismay the crowd of costumed people surged toward Ria and circled around her. A man dressed as a scarecrow, despite his wide girth, the one who had called her out, stepped closer.

You sure look like Harriet, just the way folks are saying. You don’t know any of us, he added.

The phrase and I wish the pleasure had been indefinitely postponed raced through her mind. Where had it come from?

We’re protesting the decision of the Historical Society to cancel their Halloween festival here on these grounds. With Jeb gone, some here think maybe we should let it alone, but October 31st will be here before we know it. It’s just seven months away. I’m Reese Danton, chairman of the All Hallow’s Eve committee.

The man’s been dead less than twenty-four hours. We should hold off, Reese. I don’t think this is a good idea anymore. The mayor told us not to bother anyone today. This advice came from a thirty-ish woman dressed as Dorothy, wearing shiny red heels and carrying a small dog who was trying desperately to jump down from her arms.

Well, so you’ve said three times now, Martine. I get the message. What do you think? Danton asked Ria. We’re divided half and half whether to stay and take a stand. Those Historical Society people are meeting in an hour. You can be the deciding vote, even if you’re not in our group.

Scrooge. That’s where the phrase had come from, Ria remembered—the words he spoke when he met the Spirit of Christmas Present in the 1951 film version with Alastair Sim. She smiled at the memory.

This is not amusing to us, even if it is to you, Danton said.

Oh, no, no, of course not, Ria said. I understand completely, but as a newcomer, I really wouldn’t want to interfere. It wouldn’t be the right thing...I’m just here to do some research. I, ah, do wish you well in your...cause.

As she walked up the stone path to the front door of the building the group parted for her and then regrouped and began arguing again. With a sigh of relief, she opened the door and went in.

It was a large foyer, and quiet. A dim light came through several high windows above a stairway on the left. In the center of the hall was a rectangular glass case and beside it a sign on a stand that said The True History of Shokan Falls. Ria stepped closer. What, she wondered, had been the untrue history, for the wording seemed to imply there was one documented somewhere.

The display showed some very old handwritten documents, the paper brittle and the ink faded. At the top lay a long gun that was labeled a Revolutionary War muzzle-loading flintlock musket, with its bayonet attached. A broadsheet lay across the lower edge, titled Gazetteer and Business Directory Of Ulster County, N. Y., dated 1872, offering a detailed history of Ulster County, wherein Shokan Falls resided.

Arrowheads, which would not be unlikely in the region, were arranged on both sides. But it was the assortment of objects lying in the middle of the case that drew her attention most of all. They included 10,000-year-old stone projectile points, a photo of an ancient fire pit, and a replica of a Barnes-type fluted spear point from 3000 BC found along the nearby Walkill River, with a note explaining that the original object lay in the New York State Museum in Albany. A newspaper article described human bones archaeologists had found at a burial site from the early Woodland period, perhaps as early as 800 BC, at the back of a rock shelter on Magdalen Island, only twenty-one miles away in the Hudson River. There was also a fossilized section of a tree dating from the Devonian period 380 million years ago, clear evidence of its origins in the world’s oldest forest.

Ria felt as if she had wandered into a hidden space that opened up just for her, the same way she felt when exploring the prehistoric structures of Britain. What else lay buried in this new landscape she had just entered?

Can I help you?

She looked up to see a tall, very thin man dressed in a suit that was too large on his narrow frame. He was holding a piece of poster board and had a worried look on his face.

I hope so. Sylvia at the library sent me. She described boxes of old papers and books you store here that the library sent over three years ago. I wanted to have a look through them.

"Ah, well, if Sylvia sent you, I’m glad to help. However, a meeting is scheduled shortly, one that promises to be lengthy, and I don’t have time to sort through anything with you. I’m Trevor Aikens. I used to chair the Historical Society and it appears,