Then again, he didn’t swear on his life.
Casey’s headlights illuminate a green sign announcing the next exit. From there, it’ll be just a fifteen--minute drive up the local road until the picturesque cluster of gabled rooftops and steeples comes into view.
It’s been a long day on the road already, but Casey had no problem making the two--hour detour in rush hour traffic. Too many days have passed without seeing Rowan. A glimpse of her might be too much to hope for, but sometimes it’s enough just to drive by the big old house and imagine her inside, utterly unaware that her perfect little world is about to come crashing down around her.
From the exit, it takes fourteen minutes to reach the chamber of commerce billboard that reads Welcome to Mundy’s Landing.
Alongside it is a traffic sign indicating that the speed limit has dropped from fifty--five to thirty and is “strictly enforced.”
When Casey first visited, there was a third sign here as well: a temporary one directing visitors toward the center of town and the historical society on Prospect Street, the hub for the annual convention colloquially known as Mundypalooza.
Casey took full advantage of the hordes of tourists that descended upon the little village to commemorate its claim to fame as the murder capital of the world—-unofficially, of course. It’s not as though the local government has embraced that slogan and printed it on bumper stickers.
Yet.
The local election campaigns this fall pitted the old guard against fresh blood. Casey followed them with interest. John Ransom, Mundy’s Landing’s longtime mayor—-whose bloodline reportedly links him to the notorious first settlers, as with many other longtime locals, including Rowan’s husband—-doesn’t like to acknowledge, much less draw attention to, the infamous murder sprees that unfolded here in the mid–1600s and then again almost a century ago.
Ninety--nine years, five months, and seven days ago, to be precise.
Casey enjoys being precise.
Mayor Ransom was soundly defeated by a relative newcomer who’d won the vocal support of local business owners. They might not admit to capitalizing on the village’s bloody past, but they certainly benefit from the annual invitation that draws increasingly large flocks of crime buffs, historians, and media from all over the world every summer.
Can you solve the Sleeping Beauty murders?
The question was printed on posters taped to every store window and lamppost in town and echoed in countless newspapers and all over the Internet.
How amusing.
What does it matter now whether the killer is identified? It’s not as though the culprit still roams these brick--paved streets by night, preying on innocent schoolchildren. Solving the ancient murders would accomplish nothing—-other than to erase the very reason for Mundypalooza’s existence.
Clearly, the powers--that--be haven’t thought of that.
Fools.
With next summer marking not just ML350—-the town’s three--hundred--fiftieth birthday—-but also the centennial anniversary of the unsolved Sleeping Beauty murders, the upcoming Mundypalooza promises to be more popular than ever. By then, Casey’s work here will be done. Too bad, because it would be even easier to get lost in increasingly larger crowds, moving in and out of circles that orbit and intersect those of Rowan and her family.
It’s tricky, at this time of year, to slip in and out of their world unnoticed. But not impossible.
“Sunday, bloody Sunday . . .” Singing, Casey drives slowly past the Mundy home, turns around in a driveway down the road, and drives past it again. It would be nice to spot Rowan’s silhouette in the window, which has happened many times. But it doesn’t happen tonight.