The first unfolded in the mid--seventeenth century, when Jake’s ancestors James and Elizabeth Mundy were executed on the gallows for butchering and cannibalizing their fellow colonists. Their only son, Jeremiah Mundy, and his offspring lived such exemplary lives that the town was later named in their honor.
Mundy’s Landing itself wasn’t quite so fortunate in terms of redemption and reputation. Precisely two and a half centuries after the hangings, the so--called Sleeping Beauty murders marked one of the eeriest unsolved crime sprees in American history. The young female victims, whose identities were never known, were lain to rest beneath white granite markers simply etched with the year 1916 and the word Angel.
Those are the murders to which Bari Hicks was referring. “I heard the museum has bloody clothing on display, and the murder weapon, and a disembodied skull. Do you really think it’s necessary to—-?”
“There’s no skull,” Rowan quickly assured her, though she’d heard that rumor all her life, “and it isn’t the actual murder weapon, it’s just an antique razor blade someone’s grandfather donated as an example, and the bloody clothing is only exhibited in the summer during . . .”
She couldn’t quite bring herself to call the event Mundypalooza, the flippant popular term for the annual historical society–sponsored fund--raiser that draws crime buffs, reporters, tourists, and plain old fruitcakes from all over the globe.
“. . . the convention,” she chose to say instead, and hastily added, “We’re only visiting the Colonial Christmas exhibit on our field trip. I promise Amanda will love it. All the kids do.”
Bari aired her frustrations in a public letter to the Mundy’s Landing Tribune, expecting to rally the villagers in protest. Today, Rowan convinced her to come along as a chaperone so that she can experience the long--standing tradition firsthand—-and, ostensibly, protect her daughter from the evils of Mundy’s Landing. It seemed like the easiest way to avoid additional Monday morning stress, but she regrets it already.
Now, winding toward home, she blinks against the glare of sinking autumn sun at every westbound curve. Lowering the visor doesn’t help at all.
She worries about Mick.
In about ten minutes, her youngest son will be getting off the late bus after varsity basketball practice. Even if he’s not plugged into his iPod—-despite her warnings about the dangers of walking or jogging along the road wearing headphones—-he’ll have his head in the clouds as usual.
At this time of year, the angle of the late day sun is blinding. What if a car comes careening up the hill and doesn’t see him until it’s too late?
Long gone are Rowan’s days of waiting in the minivan at the bus stop on Highland Road, a busy north--south thoroughfare. Even on stormy afternoons—-there are plenty of those in Mundy’s Landing—-Mick insists on walking home up Riverview Road, just as his older siblings did when they were in high school.
I’ll walk Doofus, she decides as she brakes at the curbside mailbox in front of their gabled Queen Anne Victorian perched on the bluff above the Hudson.
Doofus the aging basset hound was originally Rufus, but earned his current name when it became evident that he wasn’t exactly the smartest canine in the world.
Rowan ordinarily lets him out into the yard when she gets home after a long day, but Doofus—-although increasingly lazy—-might welcome some exercise, and she can use it herself.