“They have old yearbooks online?”
Darlene chuckled. “Oh, yeah. Ours is there, too. Every single page of it.”
I groaned. We’d both been on the yearbook staff. Some of the photo selections we’d made had been a tad insensitive. Back in the day, so that it could include pictures of our graduation ceremonies, the Lenape Hollow yearbook didn’t come out until late August. By the time it was published, I was already halfway through Freshman Week at college in Maine. I remembered hearing, much later, that our old history teacher, a woman we never much cared for, flew into a rage when she saw the unflattering photo of her we’d included. That hadn’t surprised me. To add insult to injury, we’d captioned it with the word “Duh!”
Estelle Swarthout’s yearbook photo showed a serious-looking girl with short hair worn in a style typical of the late 1930s. None of the other girls on the page looked any more cheerful or better coiffed. They were all smiling, but no one showed any teeth.
I glanced at the year. “She was older than I thought, not much younger than Tessa and my mother.” For some reason, her birth date in the family Bible hadn’t registered with me in the same way this photograph did.
According to the scant information given in the yearbook, Estelle had been enrolled in a “Commercial” program rather than “College Entrance” or “Academic.” She’d played basketball, soccer, and hockey, been a member of the Commercial Club, had acted in the junior and senior plays, and had performed in an operetta.
“So she was interested in the theater even then,” I mused. “I wonder why she didn’t try for an acting career right out of high school? She wouldn’t have been the first girl to head for the bright lights of Broadway or Hollywood with nothing but dreams to sustain her.”
“You’ve been watching that PBS video of Forty-Second Street again, haven’t you?”
I ignored the jibe. Had Estelle tried and failed? Or had she stayed in Swan’s Crossing all her life, living at home with her older sister and her stepmother until she was in her late thirties and, quite possibly, too old to make a go of it on the legitimate stage?
“I wonder,” I mused aloud, “who inherited the farm when Tessa and Estelle’s father died? Do you suppose he left everything to the wicked stepmother, maybe for her lifetime, with reversion to his daughters after Rosanna’s death?”
Darlene gave a low whistle. “Talk about your motive for murder! But if either Tessa or Estelle killed her to get the farm, why would they abandon it?”
“Maybe they wanted something else from their father’s estate.”
“I don’t know, Mikki. If their only incentive was financial gain, why hang on to the property? Surely they’d have sold it at the first opportunity.”
“A house where there had been a murder? Not an easy sell.” I sighed. “All this information about Estelle is interesting, but it just raises more questions. If I wasn’t such a cockeyed optimist, I might start to get discouraged.”
“Cheer up. Think positive. Just keep telling yourself that when you search the house again, with help from Luke and Ellen, you’ll find those danged diaries.”
“Rah. Rah!” I halfheartedly pumped one fist in the air. “In case you’ve forgotten, there’s a reason neither of us were cheerleaders.”
“I was a klutz.” Darlene sent me a cheeky grin. “What was your excuse? Oh, yes. You thought the cheerleaders were snooty.”
I was still trying to think of an appropriate comeback when the phone rang.
I ignored it. I didn’t even bother getting up to check the caller ID.
At the sound of the beep, the answering machine in the living room whirred into action. Even at a distance—the length of the front hall and the length of the kitchen—I recognized Bella Trent’s whiny voice as she launched into another of her rambling diatribes.
Darlene cocked her head, listening with growing bemusement as Bella recounted my numerous editing sins and once again urged me to introduce her to Illyria Dubonnet.
“Who on earth was that?” she asked after Bella hung up.
I gave her the edited version. I didn’t reveal Illyria Dubonnet’s secret identity and I left out the fact that I’d called the cops on Bella the one time she’d come to my house.
“She sounds . . . unstable.”
I shrugged off Darlene’s concern. “It’s no big deal. If she doesn’t get a response, she’ll eventually get tired of hassling me and that will be that.”
Had I, as the saying goes, but known.
Chapter Eighteen
Detective Brightwell surprised me. He got back to me a little after eight on Monday morning, phoning to say that he had found a list of the items taken from the Swarthout house after the murder.
“Does it include diaries, or books of any kind?”
“No. And that’s the only reason I’m giving you that information. It may be a cold case, but it isn’t closed. Details aren’t shared with the general public.”
That was no more than I’d expected, but I tried to wheedle a little more out of him anyway. “Can you tell me how she was killed?” I already knew of course, from the newspaper articles I’d read. She’d been stabbed.
His voice over the phone sounded resigned. “No, I can’t.”
“You mean you won’t. You know, it isn’t as if her murderer is still running around loose and likely to kill again. You don’t have to hold back information just so you can verify the truthfulness of a confession.”
“You’ve been watching too much television.”
I swear I could hear him smile when he said that.
“I freely admit that I have only the sketchiest idea of how police procedure works in real life. Do you know why the police back then decided it was a burglary gone wrong?”
“I couldn’t tell you if I wanted to. I haven’t read the investigating officer’s notes. I’m not even sure we have them here, since the state police were also involved in the case. And before you ask, I don’t know what suspects were interviewed and I haven’t seen the coroner’s report. You asked if any diaries were taken from the scene. I checked. They weren’t.”
“Aren’t you the least bit curious? Surely it would be a feather in your cap if you solved Rosanna Swarthout’s murder after all these years.”
“I have plenty of current cases to keep me busy, Ms. Lincoln.”
I let him hear my sigh. “Okay. Thank you. I’ll keep hunting for the diaries at the farmhouse.”
I was about to hang up when he cleared his throat.
“If you do find them, and there is any information relevant to the case—”
It was my turn to smile into the phone. “You’ll be the first to know,” I promised and hung up.
I picked up the receiver again a moment later and punched in the number for Featherstone, De Vane, Doherty, Sanchez, and Schiller, wondering as I did so if I ought to reconsider getting one of those computer programs that let you see the person you’re talking to. Facial expressions and body language might help me determine if someone was telling the truth or lying to me.
Of course, the person on the other end of the line would have to have the same software—or was it hardware?—and be willing to use it. And they’d be able to judge my reactions, too. Since I’ve been told more than once that my face tends to give away everything I’m thinking, that probably wouldn’t be a good idea.
The same pleasant-voiced receptionist I’d talked to on numerous previous occasions answered my call and put me on hold. A few minutes later, she informed me that Mr. Featherstone was not available.
“I don’t need to speak with him in person,” I said. “I just need the names of the companies Tessa Swarthout used for security and housekeeping.”
That wasn’t entirely true. I’d have loved an opportunity to question the lawyer at length. In addition to contact information for those businesses, I wanted to ask what he knew about ownership of the farm after George Swarthout’s death, and again after Rosanna’s murder, and if he knew where Estelle had gone when she
left Swan’s Crossing. Most of all, I wanted to know the rest of what was in Tessa’s will. He’d already refused to tell me what would happen to the property if I failed to fulfill the conditions of her bequest, but I hoped I could change his mind. It might not matter in the least. On the other hand, if someone had taken the diaries before I started searching for them, that information could turn out to be vitally important.
The receptionist promised someone would get back to me.
I’d heard that before.
After I finished some editing for a client and made myself lunch, I left a second message for the still unavailable Mr. Featherstone. That done, I was at loose ends. I could have vacuumed and dusted, or cleaned my two bathrooms, but I’m not the world’s most dedicated housekeeper. Instead, I sat down at the dinette table with the folders Darlene had left, the Swarthout family Bible, and the letters my mother had written to Tessa.
Given what Darlene had discovered about Estelle’s acting, I wanted a second look at Mom’s single mention of Tessa’s sister. It took me a while to find the reference again. It didn’t turn up until a letter that was written some ten years after Rosanna’s murder.
I’m sorry to hear your sister’s ambitions haven’t been realized, Mom had written, but that’s hardly your fault. You know where the blame belongs.
It would have been nice if my mother had been a little more specific, but I thought I could puzzle out what she meant. Because of that single California address, I suspected Tessa and her sister had headed straight for La-La Land after Rosanna’s death. Tessa had left soon after, but Estelle might have stayed on.
From the reviews I’d seen, she’d possessed a modicum of talent as an amateur actress. It wasn’t much of a stretch to suspect that she’d developed an exaggerated opinion of her abilities. Her family—rural, conservative, and probably more realistic than she was—would surely have opposed the idea of a career onstage or onscreen.
History, other than that which directly affected my ancestors, has never held a great deal of interest for me, but the date in Estelle’s yearbook had reminded me that Mom, Tessa, and Estelle were young women during the Great Depression. That would not have been the best time to strike out on one’s own in search of fame and fortune. Since Estelle had still been living at home twenty years later, my best guess was that she’d lacked the gumption to rebel.
If my reconstruction of events was anywhere near the mark, it was easy to imagine Estelle spending those years regretting her lost chance. She must have felt trapped on the family farm, perhaps even desperate to escape.
It was a good thing both she and Tessa had an alibi for the time of the murder.
Shaking my head, I tucked my mother’s letters back into their envelopes. I felt confident in surmising that Estelle had, somewhat belatedly, gone after her dream. I was equally certain that she’d failed to achieve it. Unfortunately, my conclusions didn’t bring me any closer to solving any of the mysteries surrounding the Swarthout farm. Who killed Rosanna? Was there a clue to be found in one of the diaries? And where the heck were those darned diaries anyway?
I got up, stretched, and walked over to the wall phone in the kitchen. Leland Featherstone still hadn’t returned my calls. Muttering under my breath—I won’t repeat the words I used—I tried again to get through to him.
As I’d expected, I was told he wasn’t available.
“Then let me talk to Jason Coleman,” I snapped.
“Oh, he’s—”
“Now!”
“Hold, please.”
Is there anything more annoying than what we used to call “elevator music” playing in your ear while you wonder if you might be stuck in telephone limbo for the rest of your life? Every once in a while a recorded voice chimed in to tell me my call was important and someone would be with me shortly.
Sure they would!
I was about to hang up when Coleman finally came on the line. “Ms. Lincoln. What can I do for you?”
The first answer that popped into my mind is probably illegal. Besides, a lowly assistant would never do that to the senior law partner at his firm. Instead, very glad he couldn’t see my face, I simply asked for contact information for the companies Tessa had used.
“Is there a problem?” he asked.
“I don’t think so, but I haven’t yet found the diaries Tessa wanted me to edit and it’s possible one of those services can give me an idea about where else to look. The people who came in to clean must know the house well.”
“I suppose so.” He sounded doubtful.
“As for the security company, they should be able to tell me if anyone besides the housekeepers ever went inside, or if the farmhouse was ever broken into.”
“I’ll look up the information and get back to you,” Coleman promised.
“Sure you will,” I muttered after he disconnected. I wasn’t going to hold my breath.
Chapter Nineteen
I hadn’t heard a peep out of Jason Coleman by the time I left Lenape Hollow on Tuesday morning to return to the farm with Luke and Ellen. That Ellen was willing to spend her day off with Luke was no surprise—I was beginning to suspect there was a wedding in their future—but devoting her free time to scouring an old house for diaries that might not exist went above and beyond being nice to the boyfriend’s relatives.
“You don’t have to do this, you know.” It was not the first time I’d tried to give her an out.
“I want to, Mikki. It’ll be fun.” Looking up at the farmhouse from the driveway, she grinned. “I love old houses.”
We started with a walk-through. As we went from room to room, I gave Ellen a brief summary of what I’d learned about the family, the murder, and the history of the farm.
“From what I gather, the Swarthouts had been taking in summer boarders since the late eighteen hundreds. A lot of people around here did that to supplement their income. Guests expected something to be offered by way of entertainment, so the Swarthouts dug a pond on the property to use for swimming, boating, and fishing.”
“A pond?” Ellen interrupted. “Is it still here?”
I made a vague gesture in what I thought was the right direction. “It’s back there somewhere.”
By that time we were upstairs. Ellen peered out a window. “There it is! How lovely.”
Luke went to stand beside her. “I bet old George Swarthout used to harvest ice in the winter.”
Ellen looked puzzled. “For drinks?”
He shook his head. “To keep ice boxes cold in the days before everyone had electricity and owned refrigerators.”
“Hard to imagine,” I murmured.
“I’m glad we’re not living back then,” Ellen agreed, “but it’s interesting to hear about. Were they still taking in boarders when the murder took place?”
“Yes, but the season had just ended. Rosanna was killed in September, after all their guests had gone back to New York except for a young couple who were renting the apartment over the garage.”
“Have you looked for the diaries there?” she asked.
I shook my head. “They’re supposed to be in the house.” Frowning, I considered the source of that information. “If we don’t turn up anything in the farmhouse, I guess the next logical step would be to search all the outbuildings.”
Three hours later, we’d examined every nook and cranny we could find and come up empty. Remembering how hungry treasure hunting had made me the last time around, I’d packed a picnic basket containing plenty of food and drink. We took a break and sat at the kitchen table to eat lunch.
“Well, that was discouraging.” Ellen poured coffee from my oversize thermos into one of the heavy-duty, hotel-style ceramic cups she’d found in a kitchen cabinet.
“Tell me about it.” I sighed.
“So, outbuildings next?” Luke asked. “Or do we start ripping out walls and tearing up floorboards?”
I sent him a quelling look and unwrapped a ham and cheese sandwich. “I don’t own the place yet. No demolition.
I just wish I could work up more enthusiasm for poking around in the garage and barn.”
“You don’t think we’ll find anything. I get it.” He’d already devoured two sandwiches, making me glad I’d made plenty.
“It’s not only that. Those buildings look ready to fall down around our ears and inside they must be filthy. Nice hiding places for mice, rats, spiders, and snakes.” I barely repressed a shudder. “Diaries? Not so much.”
“Bring those critters on,” Luke said with a laugh. “We’re bigger than they are.”
Ellen sent me a sympathetic look. “Snakes are more likely to be outside in the tall grass than inside.”
“Then thank goodness we don’t have to go traipsing across any of the fields.”
“Well . . .” She toyed with her napkin.
“Let me guess—you want to take a closer look at the pond.”
“I thought I might stroll over that way and check out any buildings I come across. The Swarthouts probably had a boathouse at one time, and maybe a shack for their guests to use as a changing room.” She turned a smile on Luke. “I might even find your hypothetical ice house.”
“Just be careful,” I warned her.
We were both wearing sturdy shoes, but where I had on jeans, Ellen had dressed for the warmth of the day in shorts and a sleeveless top. That left a lot of bare skin exposed, should she happen to stumble over a venomous reptile.
“I’ll search the barn,” I offered. “Luke can investigate the two smaller outbuildings just beyond it. I’m pretty sure one was used as a chicken coop back in the day.”
He must have heard something in my voice, because he sent me a narrow-eyed look. “That’s suspiciously generous of you.”
Ellen giggled. “You can’t blame her for wanting to hand off the chicken coop. Some smells . . . linger.”
“Right. Okay.” He took his assignment with good grace. “That still leaves the garage and the apartment above it.”
“Why don’t we meet there when we’ve finished the rest and do that part of the search together,” I suggested. “That apartment strikes me as a pretty unlikely spot to hide anything, since it was occupied at the time Tessa left, but I suppose the garage is a possibility. They must have owned a car. How else would she and her sister have gotten to Monticello to go to the movies?”
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