“Casey, wait—”
I hang up before she can finish. Staring at the now-empty Royce house, I think about the last birthday I celebrated with Len. The Big Three-Five. To celebrate, he rented an entire movie theater so I could finally fulfill my dream of watching Rear Window on the big screen.
If my mother were still on the line, she’d tell me what I’m doing is playing pretend. Role-playing Jimmy Stewart in his wheelchair because I have nothing else going on in my sad little life. While that’s probably truer than I’d care to admit, this isn’t just playacting.
It’s real. It’s happening. And I’m a part of it.
That doesn’t mean I can’t take a cue from good old Jimmy. In the movie, he had Grace Kelly search his suspicious neighbor’s apartment, finding the wedding ring that proved he had murdered his wife. While times have changed and I don’t know if Katherine’s wedding ring will be enough proof for Wilma Anson, maybe something else in that house will do the trick.
By the time Tom’s Bentley vanishes from view, the phone is stuffed back in my pocket, the binoculars are taking my place in the rocking chair, and I’m marching off the porch.
While he’s away, I plan on doing more than just watch the Royces’ house.
I’m going to search the place.
Rather than take the boat across the lake—the quickest and easiest option—I choose to walk the gravel road that circles Lake Greene. It’s completely quiet and less conspicuous than the boat, which could be seen and heard by Tom if, God forbid, he returns while I’m still there and I have to make a quick getaway.
Also, walking gives me a chance to clear my head, gather my thoughts, and, if I’m being completely honest, change my mind. The road, so narrow and tree-lined in spots that it could pass for a path, invites contemplation. And as I walk, the lake glistening through the trees on my left and the thick forest rising to my right, what I’m thinking is that breaking into the Royce house is a bad idea.
Very bad.
The worst.
I pause when I reach the northernmost corner of the lake, smack in the middle of the horseshoe curve separating Eli’s house from the Mitchells’， where Boone is staying. I wonder what both men would say if they knew what I’m planning. That it’s illegal, probably. That breaking and entering is a crime, even if my intentions are pure. Boone, ex-cop that he is, would likely list more than a dozen ways in which I’ll be charged if I get caught. And Eli wouldn’t hesitate to mention that what I’m about to attempt is also dangerous. Tom Royce will come back at some point.
Far across the water, all the way at the lake’s southern tip, I can spot the rocky bluff where Len and I had our afternoon picnic a week before he died. In the water below, Old Stubborn pokes from the surface. Because of the way it’s situated, the ancient tree can’t be seen from any of the houses on Lake Greene, which is probably why it’s attained such mythical status.
The guardian of the lake, according to Eli.
Even if he’s right and Old Stubborn is keeping watch over Lake Greene, there are limits to what it can do. It can’t, for instance, break into the Royce house and search for clues.
That leaves me to do the job.
Not because I want to.
Because I have to.
Especially if finding something incriminating inside is the only way I’m going to convince Wilma that Tom is lying about Katherine.
I resume walking, faster than before, not slowing until I’ve passed Eli’s place and the Royces’ house comes into view. The front is far different from the back. No floor-to-ceiling glass here. Just a modern block of steel and stone with narrow slats for windows on both the upper and lower floors.
The front door, made of oak and big enough for a castle, is locked, forcing me to go around the side of the house and try the patio door in the back. I had wanted to avoid the possibility of being seen from my side of the lake. Hopefully Boone is busy working inside the Mitchells’ house and not sitting on the dock, watching this place as fervently as I’ve been.
I cross the patio quickly, making a beeline to the sliding door that leads into the house. I give it a tug and the unlocked door opens just a crack.
Seeing that two-inch gap between the door and its frame gives me pause. While I’m not up to speed on Vermont’s penal code, I don’t need Boone to tell me what I’m about to do is against the law. It’s not quite breaking and entering, thanks to the unlocked door. And I’m certainly not intending to steal anything, so it’s not burglary. But it is trespassing, which will result in at least a fine and some more horrible headlines if I’m caught.