The Worm Man

Mary Frances Hill

Description

Kate Boswell’s favorite student goes missing, and she suspects the Worm Man—a serial killer from Kate’s own childhood past—but there’s one problem: he’s dead.
Third-grade teacher and aspiring artist, Kate Boswell has been through a lot in her forty years of life. She faced her childhood friend’s murder, a late-term miscarriage, and most recently, the death of her husband. When Kate sells a series of drawings at a gallery show to an anonymous buyer and saves her farmhouse from foreclosure, she’s sure the bad times are over, but after the lucrative sale, Kate’s favorite student, Cassie, goes missing.
Kate is convinced that the Worm Man, the serial killer who abducted her girlhood friend, has grabbed Cassie too. Cassie was collecting worms in a bucket when she disappeared, and earthworms are the Worm Man’s calling card. It all makes sense—except it doesn’t. The Worm Man has been dead for a decade.
Desperate to find Cassie, Kate joins forces with Globe reporter and Worm Man expert, Tom Kingsley. Together, they travel to Maine and follow up on a promising lead. When Kate is dubbed delusional, her involvement in the case strains her relationship with her new boyfriend, a local cop, and it puts her career in jeopardy. Fearing she’ll lose her freedom and the life she’s only recently started to rebuild, Kate is forced to confront the most frightening ghost of her past.

Sujets

• Amateur Sleuth
• Detective
• Mystery
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Archway Publishing
• Date de parution: 07 juin 2022
• Nombre de lectures: 1
• EAN13: 9781665721769
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

THE Worm MAN
A NOVEL
 
 
 
 
 
MARY FRANCES HILL
 
 
 
 

 
Copyright © 2022 Mary Frances Hill.
 
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
 
Archway Publishing
1663 Liberty Drive
Bloomington, IN 47403
www.archwaypublishing.com
844-669-3957
 
Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.
 
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
 
Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.
 
ISBN: 978-1-6657-2175-2 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-6657-2176-9 (e)
 
Library of Congress Control Number: 2022906841
 
 
Archway Publishing rev. date: 06/03/2022
Contents
Author’s Note
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Epilogue
About the Author
 
To my mother, who loved all books, but especially mysteries and thril lers.
Author’s Note
T his story, which is primarily set in Merrimack County, New Hampshire, was inspired by vacations spent in the lovely town of New London. Though the author describes local businesses, recreational sites and schools, these depictions come from her imagination and memories. Please read this with a flexible open mind. Enjoy.
Chapter 1
2018
Monday, August 13 th , 3:43 p.m.
I tighten my grip on my portfolio case, say a quick prayer, and enter the Wyndham Gallery. As white walls and framed pops of color surround me, the door clanks shut, causing me to jump. You can do this, Kate. You’ve got to do this. Once upon a time, you earned an art degree. Don’t forget that. Trembling, I tuck some hair into my bun, smooth my cotton tunic, and look up.
Evelyn Taylor, the gallery owner, is seated behind her desk. Her manicured fingers rest on her laptop keyboard. When I greet Evelyn, she nods. She knows me. My late husband, Glen, an architect, designed her building, not that this means anything.
In the past, whenever I’ve pitched her my work, she’s always rejected it. I’ve simply brushed off her rebuffs. But today is different. To say I’m desperate is an understatement. Glen died of leukemia eleven months ago. His medical bills crushed me. I’m about to lose our New Hampshire farmhouse, his dream home. I have to pull in some cash. But this moment is about more than money. It’s about me proving my worth as an artist, as a person. Since Glen’s death, I’ve felt purposeless, lost.
As I approach her, Evelyn’s gaze drifts to my portfolio case. She purses her lips. “Show’s less than a week away, Kate. I’m no longer reviewing or accepting submissions.”
I take in her sleek bob and designer pantsuit. “But it’ll only take you a few minutes to look over my drawings.”
Evelyn taps her Rolex. “I’ve got an appointment in Manchester. Gotta get rolling. Traffic on I-93 is a bitch these days.”
“Please, Evelyn. Just take a peek.” I gesture at the towering gallery walls, the steel beams, and the canned lighting. “Glen’s firm did a nice job with your space.”
She cocks her chin at the Mercedes in the lot. “I’ll give you five minutes. But only because I’m not eager to climb into that hot car.”
“You won’t be disappointed.”
I hand her my sketchbook. As she thumbs through it, sweet, innocent eyes gaze up from the pages. This makes total sense. I’m a third-grade teacher and love drawing kids, especially my students. I’ve filled my sketchbook with their curious, eager likenesses. I consider these drawings my best work. Evelyn squints at the images, and I hold my breath.
“Well, technically these really are quite good,” she says. “This little girl with the white-blonde hair, you drew her a number of times.”
“That’s Cassie,” I say. “Cassie was in my class two years ago. She’s a sweetheart.”
I smile. Teachers aren’t supposed to have favorites, but I’ve got one. It’s Cassie. Because I tutored Cassie in math after school, at the park and at our house, and Glen regularly drove her home, he got to know her too. He claimed the architect in him liked that she preferred watching Tiny House Nation and The World’s Most Extraordinary Homes over playing with American Girl dolls. After our tutoring sessions, Glen and Cassie often designed and built doll and birdhouses in our barn. On occasion, they met at the lake and made sandcastles. Though their close relationship was unusual, I didn’t question it. My late-term miscarriage prevented Glen from having the family he desired. If spending time with Cassie made him happy, who was I to judge? And Cassie’s mom, Lauren, who’d just had a baby, seemed to appreciate Glen’s help. It takes a village to raise a child. Isn’t that what people say?
Evelyn shuts my sketchbook and gives it back to me. “Skill-wise, these drawings are excellent. But they’re simply not provocative enough. Come back when you’ve got something special. Your work is strong, just not compelling. These won’t sell.”
My chest tightens. “But I sold seventy similar drawings at the PTA fundraiser carnival last spring. And those were just freehand drawings. I did them in five minutes while the students were posing, well, sort of. Half the kids were eating cotton candy while I was drawing them. The others were playing with their ticket stubs and twisting their glow-bead necklaces. I have a website,” I add when Evelyn glances at the door. “People hire me to draw their children quite regularly, especially Merrimack County residents. Someone will buy these if you include them in your show. I guarantee it. Since I launched my site seven months ago, I’ve sold 180 plus portraits. The school parents and staff still rave about my carnival sketches.”
Evelyn shrugs. “Of course, they do. Everyone loves pictures of their friends and family members, hence the popularity of Facebook and Instagram.”
“But—”
“Like I said, your technique and your talent, they’re undeniable. But I’m running a business here. I’ve got a reputation to uphold. I need pieces critics and art aficionados are going to notice. What I want are images that’ll make industry people talk. Faces of sweet children, well, to put it bluntly, are boring. Too tame.”
“Please—”
“I’m having another show in December. Come back then.”
“But—”
“No, not this time.”
As Evelyn grabs her keys off her desk, I slip my sketchbook back into my case. My hand shakes, the case falls to the floor, and a drawing slides out. Bloodred squiggles cover the page. Instinctively, I reach for the drawing.
Evelyn swats my hand away. “What’s that?”
“Nothing,” I tell her. “Absolutely nothing. Just something I scribbled. A doodle.”
She plucks the drawing off the floor, studying it. When she grins, I recoil.
In the drawing, a four-fingered hand grips a bloody snowball. Pieces of red yarn and worms poke out of the snow mound. As a teen, back in New Jersey, I witnessed my best friend Whitney’s abduction. Whitney was murdered five days after she was snatched. Her killer, the Worm Man, died before he was caught and arrested. What I’d drawn was her murderer’s hand and his calling card, earthworms.
I stare at the hideous drawing and shiver. The night I created it, I wanted to rip it up. But I knew the piece was exceptional, worth money, so I tucked it into my portfolio case for safekeeping.
Evelyn fingers my gory drawing. “We’ll do a series. We’ll display six of those kid drawings: the overbite girl, the scooter kid, the boy with the dimples, the freckle-faced twins, the girl sucking her thumb, and that girl you drew a dozen times, the one with the white-blonde hair.”
“Cassie,” I say.
She nods. “We’ll juxtapose the kid pics with this bloody one. The effect will be shocking. My take is forty percent. You price your pieces.” She points at my snowball hand drawing. “What do you want to charge for this one?”
“It’s isn’t for sale,” I snap. “I don’t want it exhibited. It doesn’t fit my brand. It’s—”
“Perfect for my show. Look,” Evelyn says when I bite my lip, “just so we’re clear, I’m not interested in the others without this one. Alone, they’re dull. This one completes the message.” She jingles her keys. “It’s all or nothing? What’s it gonna be, Kate?”
I picture the stack of unpaid bills on my breakfast table and think about my farmhouse and the countless hours Glen spent refinishing the hardwoods, painting the trim and sills, and tiling the bathrooms. As Evelyn grabs her briefcase, I do the math in my head. Three hundred dollars times seven minus Evelyn’s forty percent equals one thousand two hundred and sixty dollars , enough to cover a mortgage payment and make a dent in my property tax debt, but not so much that I’ll turn off buyers.
“You’ve got a deal. Three hundred each.” I hand her my sketchbook. “And thank you. I truly appreciate the opportunity.”
Evelyn and I speak about mounting and framing the pieces and details pertaining to the upcomi