The Wicked Hour

by Alice Blanchard

  Morgan Chambers’s parents lived in an upscale neighborhood nestled in the foothills of the Adirondacks. The view was spectacular—a backdrop of mountains veined with ridges and waterfalls. The Georgian-style house on Vista View Drive was flanked by sturdy oaks and well-tended gardens. There was a stained-glass fanlight over the antique six-paneled door.

  Natalie rang the doorbell, and Mr. Chambers greeted her—a man in his mid-fifties with faded red hair and sharply focused eyes. He wore bland clothes—a beige sweater, tailored brown pants, comfortable canvas shoes. “Hello? Can I help you?”

  “My name is Detective Lockhart,” she said, showing him her badge. “I have news about your daughter, Morgan. May I come in?”

  The pain in his eyes was staggering. “News?” he repeated softly.

  “Yes. Can we talk inside?”

  His shoulders sagged. He swallowed hard and looked as if he wanted to slam the door in her face—after all, the first stage of grief was denial.

  “Please come in,” he said, opening the door.

  She followed him into a spacious living room with deep bay windows, mahogany-paneled walls, and a stone fireplace. Natalie sensed that if she ran her finger along the mantelpiece, she wouldn’t find a speck of dust.

  Now Ms. Chambers came downstairs—a fiftysomething, thin, intense-looking woman. She had a wary expression on her face. “What’s going on?”

  “This is Detective, um…” Mr. Chambers turned toward Natalie, baffled.

  “Lockhart.” She shook the woman’s hand. “Hello, Ms. Chambers. I have some unfortunate news about your daughter, Morgan.”

  “Unfortunate?” Ms. Chambers repeated anxiously. “What do you mean?”

  Natalie could hear the blood squishing through her heart, as if it were made of rubber. She took a deep breath and said, “We found a deceased young woman inside a dumpster in Burning Lake this morning … along with your daughter’s wallet with her ID inside. I’m sorry, but I need you to confirm that it’s Morgan.”

  They stared at her with crushed expressions. Ms. Chambers pressed her lips together and held herself erect, balancing her grief on her squared shoulders, while Mr. Chambers dragged a chair across the carpet and told his wife, “Have a seat, Heather.”

  She brushed his concerns aside. “I’m okay.”

  “Detective, have a seat,” Mr. Chambers insisted.

  This shiny house couldn’t be more different from the one Natalie had grown up in, with its clutter and noise. Here the silence pressed against your ears. No music, no laughter, no barking dogs or raucous children. Natalie was afraid to sit on the antique Chippendale-style chair. Its elegant legs didn’t seem capable of holding more weight than a sparrow’s. She felt like a visitor at a museum where people just happened to live.

  “Thank you.” She took a seat and didn’t know where to put her hands. There were no armrests. So she folded them in her lap, very ladylike.

  Mr. Chambers ushered his wife over to the elegant antique sofa, where they sat side by side like two china cups shivering in their saucers. The house smelled of woodsmoke. The brocaded curtains were parted, allowing a gorgeous view of the backyard. Within all this beauty, ugliness had struck. Natalie had brought death into the house with her—an unforgivable sin.

  “I’m sorry, but I need to show you her picture,” she said, taking out her phone and swiping through the images. She chose a close-up of Morgan that was the most serene, as if she were merely asleep and not dead. “Is that your daughter?”

  Ms. Chambers cupped the phone in her delicate hands like a precious gift. She stared at the screen. Mr. Chambers leaned solicitously over his wife’s shoulder and frowned. “Yes, that’s her,” he said and looked away.

  Ms. Chambers handed the phone back. “Would you like something to drink, Detective?” she asked with blank eyes. “Coffee, tea?”

  “No, thanks, I’m fine.”

  “What happened to her?” Heather asked, her face drawn and ghastly pale.

  “Heather,” Mr. Chambers said gently.

  “We don’t know how or why she died,” Natalie explained as gently as she could. “We found her in one of the dumpsters during our annual cleanup. We’re doing everything in our power to find out what happened to your daughter, Ms. Chambers.”

  “Please. I’m Lawrence, and this is Heather,” Mr. Chambers interrupted.

  Heather whispered, “Oh my God.”

  “I’m so sorry for your loss,” Natalie said, hating the inadequacy of those words. They were so stupid and scripted-sounding. So fucking brought-to-you-by-Law & Order.

  Sorry? For my loss?

  “I know how hard this must be,” she continued gently, and Mr. Chambers put a protective arm around his wife. “But I need to ask a few questions.” Natalie took out her notebook and pen. “When was the last time you heard from Morgan?”

  “About a month or two ago,” Mr. Chambers answered, while his wife stared off into space, attempting to process the awful news. “We weren’t in regular communication with her. Not like we used to be,” he said in a strained voice. “But we let her know she was welcome home at any time. We kept her room exactly the way it was before she moved out. Morgan’s a very independent soul. She’d drop by maybe once a month to check in with us.”

  Natalie nodded. “What was she doing in Burning Lake?”

  They glanced at each other.

  “We don’t know,” he admitted.

  “So she didn’t share that information with you?”

  “No,” Heather said, trembling all over. “Somehow … we’ve all drifted apart.”

  “And she plays the violin?” Natalie asked.

  Mr. Chambers nodded proudly. “Morgan was a child prodigy. An excellent soloist. I taught her myself. She had a very promising future…”

  “You taught her yourself?” Natalie repeated.

  “I’m a professor of music at the conservatory. She took a few classes with me when she went to school there.”

  “Which is why she never came around to see us anymore,” Heather muttered.

  Natalie rested the notebook in her lap. “Why is that? Was there a problem?”

  “My wife thinks I’m too hard on Morgan,” Professor Chambers explained. “That I demand too much from her as a musician. But I demand the same amount of commitment from all my students. I didn’t treat Morgan any differently.”

  “So you teach the violin at the conservatory?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Morgan graduated with honors two years ago.”

  “And the last time you saw her was … when exactly?”

  “The end of September,” Heather said with guarded eyes. “She needed to borrow money again, so she came home and pretended to care about us before asking for five hundred dollars.”

  “Heather, please,” the professor whispered harshly. Then he told Natalie, “Morgan works at the town library, and her salary can barely cover her monthly rent.”

  “Does she rent the apartment by herself?” Natalie asked.

  “No, she has a roommate, Samantha Dreyfus.” He gave Natalie the address—it was the same as the one on Morgan’s driver’s license.

  “And she didn’t tell you she was going to spend Halloween in Burning Lake?”

  “She told us to get a life,” Heather muttered hoarsely.

  “Get a life?” Natalie repeated, feeling this woman’s huge loss emanating from her like a viral infection. In clinging to these minor quibbles, Heather Chambers was still in denial that her daughter would never be able to blame her for anything again.

  “She told us to get out of her life,” Heather corrected herself angrily, her gold hoop earrings sparkling in the afternoon sun.

  “Get out of her life—why is that? What led to this rupture in your relationship?”

  “Will you please stop?” the professor barked at his wife, shards of pain in his eyes. “Detective, I think we’ve had enough questions for today, if you don’t mind. Morgan was a wonderful girl. Full of life and laughter. I don�
��t understand why this has happened. I guess I don’t understand anything in this crazy world of ours.”

  Natalie looked at Heather, who was staring into space again, exhausted by her own bitterness. She asked Mr. Chambers, “Did Morgan have any enemies to speak of? Anybody who might’ve wanted to hurt her?”

  “I can’t think of a single person who’d want to harm Morgan,” he said loudly, and Natalie felt a sharp sympathetic pinch, like a glass shard lodging underneath her fingernail. She paused to let their anger and confusion dissipate.

  She picked up a framed photograph of Morgan from the polished wooden side table and asked them, “May I take a picture of this? Do you mind? We’re still trying to locate witnesses…”

  Heather nodded vaguely.

  Natalie took a few pictures, then placed the framed photo back on the table.

  Lawrence sighed hard. “I love both of my daughters, Detective. I’m very proud of them. There’s a shelf in Morgan’s room full of all the awards she’s won over the years. She was incredibly talented, but after she graduated, I’m afraid she lost faith in herself. I don’t know why. I don’t know whether it was the company she kept, or her own inner struggles with self-confidence … but anyway, she let us know that she needed a little space, and so we gave it to her. But after a few years, the chasm kept widening between us.”

  Natalie found herself nodding. “You have another daughter?”

  “Poppy. Also a gifted violinist. She’s seventeen.”

  “What happened to provoke this alienation between you and Morgan?”

  “God only knows. Kids at that age … we were just hoping she’d figure out what was bothering her, and eventually come back to us with a stronger sense of purpose.” His eyes were bloodshot from straining to hold back the tears. “Anyway…” He sighed heavily, as if the world had just tumbled off his shoulders.

  “I’m so sorry,” Natalie told them. “I don’t mean to pry like this.”

  “We understand,” he said, speaking for both of them.

  “Do you recognize this item?” Natalie took out her phone again and shared a screenshot of the silver necklace with the Wiccan symbol on it that Lenny and Augie had found in the dumpster.

  Heather shook her head. “I’ve never seen it before.”

  “Neither have I,” Professor Chambers said.

  A heavy silence filled the house.

  Natalie broke it by saying, “I’d like to take a look at Morgan’s room, if that’s okay.”

  Heather tied her silver hair back with a tortoiseshell clip and stood up. “It’s right this way, Detective.”

  12

  Morgan Chambers’s bedroom was like a shrine to her past accomplishments. The walls and trim work were painted in pastel tones that were pleasing to the eye. The bed was neatly made, crowned with a collection of well-worn plush toys. The comforter was decorated with a pattern of musical staffs. On the oak bureau top was a ceramic jewelry box in the shape of a violin.

  A pink music stand was propped in front of a full-length mirror, and adorning the walls were framed photographs of Morgan playing the violin, spanning the decades, from elementary school to college. The tall oak bookcase contained a multitude of awards, plaques, and trophies. Through the bedroom windows, you could see the misty mountain peaks beyond the crimson woods.

  “I don’t know how to tell Poppy,” Heather Chambers said from the doorway. She glanced around the room. “What should I say? She adored Morgan.”

  Natalie nodded sympathetically. “Tell her…” She hesitated.

  “Yes?”

  Natalie wasn’t supposed to say anything. It was against the rules, but fuck it. “Tell her that the longing and sadness will be there like the tide, rolling in and out, awakening and then quieting down. It will come and go, but eventually it won’t hurt so much.”

  Heather ran her hands distractedly through her hair and checked to make sure all the buttons of her Ann Taylor blouse were buttoned up. The color had returned to her cheeks. “I think I’ll wait until after you’re gone,” she said. “Before I tell her. Before I break the news that her sister was tossed away like human garbage.” She reached for the doorknob. “You’ll let me know if you need anything?”

  “Thanks. I will.”

  Ms. Chambers closed the door behind her, and Natalie was alone in the room. She walked over to the closet, flicked on the light, and rifled through Morgan’s clothes. She found the baby-pink skirts of a little girl and the leather jackets of a rebellious teenager. There were rows of shoes—wedge heels and flip-flops, rain boots and New Balance. There were artfully ripped denim jeans, microprinted dresses, yoga pants, and bloat-concealing sweaters. Clothes to fit all sizes and moods.

  Moving over to the bookshelf, Natalie counted an impressive number of trophies, plaques, and blue ribbons. Among the awards was a crystal vase shaped like a violin and a plush teddy bear wearing a T-shirt that proclaimed, “Music Is Who I Am.”

  Natalie flipped on the track lighting and a pure, white light illuminated the leather task chair in front of Morgan’s sleek contemporary desk. She picked up a dusty copy of Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar. Tucked inside was a handwritten note from Morgan to her mother, apologizing for an argument they’d had. In heartbreaking fashion, Morgan had dotted all her i’s with little hearts. “I didn’t mean to hurt you like that. I’m sorry, Mom.”

  Above the desk was a shelving unit full of conflicting influences—Hunger Games and Jane Austen, a whimsical figurine of an angel next to a Bride of Frankenstein action figure, a ceramic fiddle player next to a chipped dragon. On the wall was a poster of Jascha Heifetz playing the violin. In this room, Natalie sensed the sanity and insanity of an adolescent girl who longed for adulthood, but wasn’t ready to abandon her childhood yet.

  She suddenly heard the muffled sound of a violin playing. She opened the bedroom door and stepped out into the hallway. The bittersweet, haunting melody coming from behind the closed door at the end of the hall. Natalie followed the alluring sound to its source and knocked. “Hello?”

  The music stopped. A few seconds later, the door swung open.

  A teenaged girl with clear blue eyes and long auburn hair stood staring back at Natalie. She wore a white tailored blouse over black tights and a beanie that said “Bad Hair Day.” She held a violin and bow with experienced panache and observed Natalie with solemn, critical eyes.

  “Hello,” Natalie said.

  “Hello,” came the dull-edged response.

  “You must be Poppy.”

  “I must be.” The girl stared. “Who are you?”

  “My name’s Natalie,” she said, emotionally torn. On the one hand, she desperately wanted to ask Poppy a few questions about her sister. On the other hand, Poppy didn’t know her sister was dead yet—and Natalie understood with gripping clarity what it was like to lose a sister. Besides, she wasn’t allowed to interview an adolescent without her parents’ consent. It was an awkward situation.

  “Hey, you have a badge,” the girl said, smiling sweetly.

  Natalie looked down at the badge slung around her neck. “I’m a detective.”

  “Oh, really? What are you doing here? Is this about the dog?” Poppy asked.

  “The dog?”

  Her eyes rounded with excitement. “Our neighbor’s golden retriever keeps running over here and digging up our garden. Mom’s apoplectic. You know, ‘OMG, my roses!’” She smirked with childish glee. “Her precious roses, right?”

  “You should build a sandbox next to the garden,” Natalie said. “Trust me, the dog will head straight for the sandbox every single time.”

  “Really? Wow, that’s good advice.” Poppy was framed in the doorway, smiling curiously at her. “Do you like classical music?”

  “I had a friend once who played the violin. She told me that picking up the violin and bow was a sacred act.”

  “Really. Sacred? I like that. Did she ever play anything by Tartini?”

  “Who?”

  “He’s th
is amazing composer. His name’s Giuseppe Tartini.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “Most people haven’t, which is a shame.” Behind her, Poppy’s room was cluttered and stuffy-smelling. The shades were drawn and the curtains were closed. Natalie noticed little piles of things on every surface—books and magazines, sketch pads and stacks of sheet music, scattered pens and colored pencils. A wall mirror, an antique bureau, a messy desktop. Every inch of wall space was covered with pictures of Poppy accepting yet another award, along with family photos and ribbons, certificates, plaques, and newspaper clippings. “Tartini is incredible,” the girl went on, her face pink with excitement. “That’s his sonata in G minor I was playing. It’s called Devil’s Trill sonata. He wrote it in 1735. It’s based on a really weird dream he had.”

  “Wow, that must’ve been some dream,” Natalie said with a warm smile.

  “More like a nightmare, huh? I performed it for my high school’s Halloween concert last week.”

  “Well, you’re very good.”

  “Am I?” she said, batting her eyelashes with comical exaggeration. “I thought I was masterful.”

  “You’re all that and more.” Natalie smiled, sharing the joke. “Sorry to interrupt your practice. I should be going.”

  “Thanks for the tip about the dog.” Poppy smiled back. “Well, good-bye!” She nudged the door shut with her foot.

  Natalie felt a headache coming on. She stood rubbing the back of her neck with soothing, circular motions and decided it was time to go talk to Morgan’s roommate.

  13

  Samantha Dreyfus lived in a boxy apartment complex in a run-down area south of downtown Chaste Falls. Natalie could smell chemical fumes from the dry cleaning business next door as she took the cement steps up to the front entrance.

  Samantha lived on the third floor. A slender brunette in her mid-twenties, she greeted Natalie in her pajamas and bathrobe. “Hi, can I help you?”