Simone Villeneuve
March 1, 1883–August 29, 1907
Not an inexpensive monument to a live woman. A woman who, when he knew her, couldn’t afford new shoes.
He scanned nearby tombstones and didn’t recognise a single name.
Who was she now? And exactly how did one fake their own death—complete with graveyard plot and headstone—and no one question it? Who was there to raise question?
He wracked his memory, trying to recall everything he thought he knew about her.
The youngest of five children born to Simon and Maisie Villeneuve, Simone had been born in New Orleans, but she’d been raised in Quellentown, her mother’s birthplace, after her father died and her mother moved the family back to live with a sister.
Willa Williams had been a widowed mother of grown children when Maisie Villeneuve and her brood arrived on her doorstep. Within the month, Maisie Villeneuve was leaving her children in her sister’s care and cavorting with any number of men, seemingly unconcerned with their marital status. Married, single, widowed, divorced...Maisie Villeneuve did not discriminate, provided her escorts paid for her meals, cigarettes, and drinks. She paid the ultimate price for her indiscretion.
Six months after moving back, she was found dead in a water-filled ditch on its edge. She’d been strangled with a scarf gifted her by a married man.
The gift giver, initially the prime suspect, had been exonerated when he’d proved he’d been attending a wedding in Atlanta with his wife and children the weekend Maisie Villeneuve died. Many more men and a few women were talked to, but no hard evidence was found to file charges against anyone.
Three months after her murder, Maisie Villeneuve was nothing but a bad memory to many, save her sister and children. They were the only ones who mourned her. Simone had been on a similar path when he first met her.
He glowered at the white marble headstone.
“What am I supposed to tell her? You’re her mother, for God’s sake.”
“She’s not. Not anymore.”
Joe choked and spun around, curling his fingers into his palms as he willed his heart to slow and his tone to remain respectful despite the scourge of adrenaline galloping through his veins.
“Miss Lyons.”
Abigail Lyons offered an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry if I surprised you. I thought about calling out, but you looked deep in thought.”
So you decided to sneak up behind me in a mist-filled cemetery and spook me into an early grave instead?
He willed a tight smile. “I didn’t know you were in Atlanta.”
“I’ve been here since Monday. I was at the Emerssary last night when you met with Mrs. Emerson.”
“Mrs. Emerson?” He frowned. “You mean Simmy?”
She nodded.
“I don’t recall seeing you,” he said.
“Then I did my job well.”
“Your job?” He stared. “I hired you to find Simone Villeneuve, not eavesdrop on my conversations.”
Her smile faltered. “I was across the room, Mr. Banner. I couldn’t hear you, nor was it my intent to hear you. I was there to ensure you were not harmed and that you returned to your hotel room safely.”
“Harmed?” He scowled. “Simone wouldn’t hurt me.” Physically. Emotionally and mentally, she’d done a number on him ten years ago. And ten hours ago.
“Not Mrs. Emerson. Those assigned to protect her.”
“Protect her? From me?” He stared, incredulous.
“You. Everyone.” She gestured at the headstone. “I found this, but when I went seeking the cause of death...I didn’t think you’d be satisfied with her simply being dead. You’d want more information, some knowledge of how she had died, not just when. But the doctor who’d signed her death certificate, Mr. Emerson’s personal physician, declined to meet with me. So I went in search of the nurse who’d witnessed his signature and found she’d been in Canada on her honeymoon when she was allegedly witnessing the record of Simone Villeneuve’s death. Suspicious, I started digging.” Her chin was firm, her blue-eyed gaze steady.
“I’d like to say I was dogged in my pursuit of answers,” she said with a shrug, “but in truth, before I could gain traction, Simone Villeneuve herself showed up at my hotel. She sat at my table while I was at breakfast and asked me who I was and why I was seeking information about a dead woman. I knew it was her. I had the photograph you gave me, so I didn’t bother playing parlour games; I told her the truth. That you’d sent me. That you wanted to see her, and talk to her. For the longest time, she just stared at me. Then she leaned and whispered a date, time, and place she was willing to meet you. She said that if you missed the appointed time, she’d not agree to another meeting and would make things difficult for my father. I didn’t know if she meant that as threat of bodily harm or factual estimation of her ability to disrupt his life, but I—”
“Are you suggesting she threatened to hurt your father to scare you into ignoring the fact she’s alive?”
“No. Not at all.” She shook her head. “Her husband, on the other hand...” She inhaled. “Have you heard of Andy Emerson?”
“No,” he said. “Should I have?”
“If you lived in Atlanta, maybe.”
The mist was rising around them, wafting through headstones like the ghosts of those buried.
“On the surface, Mr. Banner,” she said quietly, “Andrew J. Emerson is a respectable Atlanta businessman, owner of a construction company and restaurant and an ambitious up-and-coming politician. He’s also a silent partner in a number of gaming and other establishments on Decatur Street. He’s a junior politician and high-level racketeer, which means he has a small clutch of trustworthy friends, many peripheral, and unsavoury associates, and not a few enemies. Hence the protection. Men guard him and his wife and children around the clock.”
“Other establishments?” he said, disbelieving. “Simone is married to a brothel owner, and they have children?”
“Two.” She nodded. “From his first marriage. His first wife died of childbirth complications, leaving him a single father of a three-year-old and a newborn. He farmed the children out to a married wet nurse whom he paid exceptionally well to care exclusively for his children amongst her own until he brought his children home after he and Simone married.”
Confusion rose up around Joe like the mist, trapping him in an airtight, fog-filled glass box. He could see Miss Lyons, and she could see him, but he couldn’t breathe, or hear anything but the soundless rush of incredulity thundering through him.
“She’s raising his children? But what about—I don’t understand. She was wild when she was young, but she wasn’t...criminal.”
“She’s not now. Not directly.” She offered an apologetic smile. “She’s a mother, and a member of many of Atlanta’s legitimate charitable boards devoted to helping the indigent, especially children. But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t know about her husband’s side activities. I’m sure she does, though as far as I was able to discern, she takes no part in them. Which means she’s criminal only by association. Which is why”—she indicated the headstone and raised her blonde eyebrows—“she wants you to go back to Sugar Hill and pretend yesterday never happened, Mr. Banner. She’s trying to protect you. You and Maisie.”
“By pretending she’s dead?” he demanded. “By asking me to pretend she’s dead, and to lie to Maisie—”
“Yes.” Abigail Lyons said emphatically. “Lie to her for her protection and yours. Simone Villeneuve might have been wild at one time, but from what I’ve surmised, she was always smart. Smart enough to leave Maisie in your hands because she knew she had nothing to offer her daughter, at least then. Smart enough to establish, on the surface, her demise to discourage you should you ever come looking for her. She expected you would find her grave, maybe mourn a moment, and move on: get married, give Maisie a couple of siblings to play with, a mother to love her. She never counted on you hiring a private investigator.”
“B
ut...” Joe breathed out and let his anger fade. Miss Lyons was the bearer of—not the reason for—the bad news. “Whoever she is now,” he said in a more controlled voice, “she is still Maisie’s mother. How am I supposed to walk away and forget that? Forget her? Get married, and—” He stared blindly at the headstone.
“That is exactly what she wants you to do, Mr. Banner.” Miss Lyons voice was soft, bordering on maternal. “She told me that as I ate my toasted English muffin and jam and sipped my tea. Told me how she fully expected you to remarry, if not for Maisie’s sake, then for your own. She told me that you’d once believed yourself in love with her, and how she knew you weren’t, and that even had she loved you, she still wouldn’t have stayed. Yours is a heart of gold, whilst she claims hers is blackened with rage at her mother’s murder and the shame of growing up in poverty. She didn’t want to taint you or her daughter with her emotional poison, so she fled to a city where she could become anonymous. She found work at the Emerssary, one of Andy Emerson’s better establishments and where he himself regularly lunches. He took a fancy to her. She initially turned down his advances, which seemed to inflame his ardour, because he refused to give up. Eventually she gave in and agreed to become his wife—on one condition: that the day she became Mrs. Andy Emerson, Simmy Villeneuve would cease to exist. And he made it happen, Mr. Banner. He’s a dangerous man. Jealous, corrupt, and powerful.” She inhaled. “Mrs. Emerson fears for your safety, and Maisie’s, should he believe you’re trying to get back into her life. Or attempting to blackmail her—”
“Blackmail?” Joe exclaimed. “I’m not—I only wanted—” He fisted his hands. “I was only trying to make Maisie happy.”
“You already make her happy, Mr. Banner,” she said with a kind smile. “That much I know. And I’m truly sorry that you had to learn it this way. I didn’t dare put any of this in the telegram. But you must accept it: the young woman you remember is no longer, and the mature woman who replaced her wants to keep it that way.”
He tipped his head back and gazed at uneven patches of blue sky peeking through the dissipating mist. With a sigh, he met Miss Lyons’s tender gaze and forced a smile.
“Thank you for helping me, and Maisie, and”—he glanced at the grave marker—“Simmy.” Clearing his throat, he added, “You wouldn’t happen to have that new camera on you, would you?”
MRS. GUENTHER PROVED a polite, if alarming, hostess.
Slender to the point of emaciation, her white hair wound and pinned at the back of her head, she perched on the edge of one of two settees facing each other in her home’s richly appointed parlour. Each repetitive stroke of her velvet green skirt over her knees by bony hands revealed a nervous nature. So, too, did the shy smiles she darted at Margaret between furtive glances at the open parlour doors—when she wasn’t gazing out the large windows to the rear yard where Maisie and Miss Chloe, overseen by Miss Lisette, played on a blanket with dolls.
A large ruby ring slid loosely on Mrs. Guenther’s ring finger while a simple gold wedding band maintained a lethargic glow on the fourth finger of her right hand. Pearls adorned her ears, and a pear-shaped sapphire hung from a gold chain around her neck.
Her choice of velvet for afternoon tea in early August, and her mismatched jewellery, suggested she either lacked interest in current fashion and the tradition of gem matching or was completely unaware she wore mismatched jewellery and was living in the second decade of the new century, not the second-to-last decade of the last century.
Given her hostess’s complete surprise, and not a little fear, at Margaret’s arrival at the appointed time Tuesday afternoon, and her continued unsettled behaviour despite the butler’s assurance that this was an expected guest, Margaret was leaning towards the latter.
When not allowing her gaze to wander the room, Mrs. Guenther was retrieving her tea from the low table in front of her, only to reset it in the exact same spot without taking a single sip.
“I do appreciate you welcoming me to tea, Mrs. Guenther.”
The woman looked at her, faded blue eyes wide, as though startled by Margaret’s presence on her sofa. Strengthening her smile, Margaret forged ahead.
“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. Your gifts of clothing to Miss Maisie and Mr. Banner and Miss Lisette were truly thoughtful.”
“Fire?” Mrs. Guenther’s wobbly smile vanished as she looked around. “There’s a fire? Where?”
“There was a fire, Mrs. Guenther,” Margaret clarified gently. “A few weeks ago. Mr. and Miss Maisie lost their home.”
“Oh, the poor dears.” The terror on Mrs. Guenther’s face faded to a bewildered smile as she tilted her head. “How long have we been friends?”
“Mrs. Sweeney is new to the neighbourhood, love. She’s the new owner of Sugar Hill.” A tall, white-haired man hastened into the room, pulling off driving gloves as he did. Tucking the gloves beside a vase on a side table, he paused in front of Margaret to extend a hand, requiring her to offer him hers. He gave her fingers a quick squeeze. “Norm Guenther. I apologise for not being here with Else to greet you, but I had business in town that took longer than I anticipated.”
“No problem at all.” Margaret returned his smile. “Your wife and I were just getting acquainted.”
“Please, call her Else and me Norm.” Flashing another toothy smile, he joined his wife on the settee, grasping one of her hands to pull it on his lap and cup it protectively with his opposite hand as he raised silver eyebrows at Margaret and asked, “So how are you getting on at Sugar Hill?”
His eyes, like his wife’s, were blue—deep midsummer sky to her faded linen. His vitality and deeply tanned, if lined, skin was in sharp contrast to her sun-deprived and oddly slack features, exacerbating Margaret’s belief that all was not right with Else Guenther.
“I’m getting on very well,” she said, doing her best to address them both, though Mrs. Guenther was gazing out the window, frowning, as though looking for something. “Mr. Banner is an exceptional estate manager, and has things well in hand—”
“Mama!” Miss Chloe bounded into the room. “Can we go on a picnic? Please say yes. Please. Miss Lisette will come with us, won’t you, Miss Lisette?” Miss Chloe’s stubby blonde pigtails whipped around as she jerked to look over her shoulder.
Miss Lisette’s eyes rounded upon seeing Margaret as she followed Miss Chloe in, leading Maisie by the hand.
She should have sent word to her and Maisie that she would be visiting today, but she’d expected Mrs. Guenther would have mentioned her planned visit in passing if not in purposeful conversation. Though the longer she was in the woman’s company, the more convinced she became the dear woman was not in complete control of her faculties.
Her choice of clothing and strange behaviour, coupled with her husband’s protective aura, suggested she suffered dementia of some sort. She likely had no recollection of having received, and replied in the affirmative, to Margaret’s note inquiring whether she might visit early Wednesday afternoon. It was also within the realm of possibility that Mr. Guenther had extended the acceptance on her behalf, believing he’d be here to guide his wife through the visit. Which he was, if only ten minutes late.
“Mama, please—”
“Chloe, Elaine,” Mr. Guenther said quietly. “We have company. Now offer a proper hello to Mrs. Sweeney, our new neighbour.”
Miss Chloe Guenther looked nothing and everything like her slender, angular parents.
Fair and blue-eyed, she had a defiant chin and snub nose chocked between rosy plump cheeks that brought to mind a guinea pig. A petulant guinea pig, as with a huffed intake of breath and not-so-subtle pout she murmured sullenly, “Hello, Mrs. Sweeney.”
“Hello, Miss Chloe.” Margaret smiled. “I’m charmed to meet you.”
Miss Chloe mumbled something too quietly for her to hear, but that Margaret accepted as a polite rejoinder nonetheless, as Maisie piped up, “Mrs. Sweeney. This is my friend, Chloe. Do you want to come on a picnic with us?”
“No, thank you, love,” she said. “I appreciate the offer. I’m here to visit with Miss Chloe’s parents, however. Maybe another time.”
Maisie’s expression fell in equal proportion to the wicked smile that transformed Miss Chloe’s face she turned on her hapless parents.
“So can we go?” she demanded. “Mrs. Peck’ll make us a basket, and Miss Lisette will go with us—”
“Yes, go. But be back before dark.” Mr. Guenther waved an exasperated hand in his daughter’s direction.
Ten minutes later, Margaret took her leave too, and with relief.
Overall, the Guenthers had proved a delightful couple, which reinforced her wisdom in seeking out Miss Alma’s guidance on where to begin her foray into local society.
Mrs. Guenther was guileless and sweet. If she’d ever been capable of devious social machinations, she wasn’t any longer. And Mr. Guenther’s chivalrous attempt to cover for his wife’s mental infirmity by answering for her and holding her hand throughout the visit warmed Margaret’s heart.
His obvious affection for his wife and the fact his presence had soothed and stalled the woman’s anxious movements bespoke a love story decades old, while his eager interest in how Margaret was getting along had made her feel welcome. She was grateful they’d agreed to come Saturday. She looked forward to getting to know them better. The only thing that niggled, a wee bit, was that neither had mentioned George.
She couldn’t decide if she was grateful or hurt by their failure to acknowledge him and, thus, her loss. Though to be fair, Mrs. Guenther likely didn’t remember him, while Mr. Guenther may have thought it kinder—or at least less painful—to avoid the reminder, especially as it seemed he had enough hurtful loss of his own on his hands.
Poor man. Her losses had been relatively quick. Alive and well one day, and gone the next. She imagined for him, it was far more excruciating to watch the woman he loved slip away in degrees, powerless to stop her steady retreat from reality and everyone around her. No wonder Miss Chloe was so demanding and sullen.
My One True Love Page 28