Up until this point, it has just been an intriguing, if not somewhat morbid, story. Now, seeing this picture, they are so human, so real. It seems impossible that, if the worst happened and they were killed the night they vanished, that they have been dead for almost ninety years. My gut tells me that Claudia the waitress is right, that they didn’t die the night of the disappearance. The houses here aren’t on top of each other, but they’re close enough that someone surely would have heard something, and Billy said the same houses have been here for over 100 years. How do four people and a dog vanish into thin air with nobody hearing or seeing anything? It seems especially implausible if they were taken by force. I suppose they could have been drugged and silently moved, but that was unlikely, I felt.
My mind is running away with itself again, and I force my attention back to the book, reading the caption below the picture. Left to right: Lilia Sheffield (10), Annaleigh Sheffield (8), and Scarlett Sheffield (4). I read back over the names and stare intently at the faces of the girls. I feel I can glean pieces of their personalities just from this one picture. Lilia looks quiet and dutiful, more serious than the rest. Her dark eyes are cast slightly downward, her long dark hair pulled back, probably braided, her shoulders slightly hunched forward, as if at ten years old she already carried a burden. The oldest child who, no doubt, had to keep the younger ones in line, at least before Julienne came to live there. Annaleigh looks determined. A go-getter and take charge child, just like my sister Nan. Her hair hangs straight and dark in front of her, her dark eyes staring straight into the camera, a smile playing at the corner of her lips, as though she hid some secret she wasn’t about to share with the rest. Scarlett, the youngest, appears a happy, delightful soul. She is smiling ear to ear, light-colored curls bouncing down to her shoulders. Her eyes sparkle, even in faded black and white. Underneath their picture is another, who I know at once must be Julienne. She is breathtaking with dark, wavy hair that must have gone half way down her back, wide dark eyes, and a perfectly angular face. She is smelling a flower, clearly posing for the camera. She is smiling a beautiful, wide smile, but her eyes look sad and far away. The person behind the camera was trying to capture a happy young woman, but she looks lost, her mind somewhere else. The caption reads: Julienne LaBame, age 19, picking flowers in the backyard at her new home in Massachusetts, just two months before she disappeared. So it was taken here, in my very own backyard. If I squint, I could see the outline of a structure behind her in the distance. The carriage house, I conclude. “Who could have wanted you dead?” I murmur out loud.
There is a third picture of the whole family - the three girls in the middle, and the parents, James and Johanna Sheffield, the caption on the right tells me. Johanna looks a bit somber, with the same serious eyes as her oldest daughter and the light colored curls of her youngest. She holds the determined look of Annaleigh, though it seems a bit weary, worn out by time and hardship. You could never mistake these children for anyone else’s. This seemingly innocuous thought unsettles me. The girls look so strikingly like their mother that it feels impossible that they could have safely disappeared with Julienne and nobody questioned the lack of family resemblance between the undeniably French nineteen year old and the three girls who could be nobody’s but Johanna Sheffield’s.
I feel a brief wave of sadness wash over me. I hoped for a family of my own, but at 32, with no man in the picture, I feel time starting to slip away. I know, realistically that it is still possible, but a rough break up the year before has left me feeling slightly hopeless and sorry for myself. It was then that I had decided to finally write my novel. It has been a dream of mine for some time, but my sense of responsibility and ties to my then-boyfriend prevented me. I didn’t feel comfortable dropping my full-time job to follow a dream that may or may not bring in any income, especially when my money was commingled with someone else’s. My boyfriend, Brent, hadn’t helped, being more logic and finance driven. When we split, I needed a change, and I thought perhaps the time was finally right. I’d uncharacteristically allowed myself to throw caution to the wind, with a backup financial plan through my weekly articles, virtual lectures, and private clients. My friend Kim, who helped publish some of my short stories, agreed to take on the challenge with me and was working as my publisher.
I look back at the photo. There is something off about James Sheffield’s stance. He is posed as he should be, arm around Johanna facing forward, but his eyes aren’t focused fully on the camera. Instead, they are directed ever so slightly to the right. Perhaps he is looking at one of his girls? If so, they don’t seem to notice. Something about it strikes me as odd, but I can’t say what.
I turn the page and start reading. Much of it I know from Billy’s newspaper articles, but a few statements jump out at me. The first is that Johanna reportedly seemed depressed after the birth of her third child, Scarlett, and had never quite recovered. That could account for her sad eyes in the photo, I think. The author writes that Johanna withdrew from the public eye and spent much of her time in her room and at her sister’s house about half an hour north. The same house where the party had been, I guess. Odd that her sister would throw a party knowing how Johanna had developed what seemed akin to social anxiety. The story also reported that the night of the party, the couple was seen having a disagreement but then appeared to have made up and that, uncharacteristically, Johanna seemed rather social. The last person reported to have seen them alive was Johanna’s sister, Margaret, who walked them to the door around 11 PM. When interviewed, Margaret had said that they headed in the direction of their car, and she waved goodnight and closed the door. She didn’t think to watch them drive away, for she was hosting a big party and they seemed amiable enough when they walked out.
The other, more startling, bit of information from this book is that a neighbor reported seeing a man around the back of the Sheffield house at approximately 8:30 PM the night of the fire. She said she couldn’t see the man’s face, but he looked to have slightly longer hair, appeared to be dressed decently - she didn’t think he was a homeless man looking for shelter - and probably was about five foot ten inches tall. A passerby claimed to have seen a man in the same area at approximately 9 PM, dressed in what looked to be pants and a shirt, about five foot ten inches tall, but with slightly shorter hair. Originally, investigators, and this author, assumed that the two men were one and the same, and that the difference in time and hair length was due to inaccuracy of memory and the dark conditions under which they saw him. Both witnesses agreed that he was seen in a quick glance, and that with the dark, they couldn’t be one hundred percent sure of the details - only the approximate time and that he looked to be of average height. Neither reported anything until after the fire, although the neighbor did go to get her husband, but by the time she and her husband returned, the shadowy figure was gone. It was shortly after 9 PM that the carriage house went up in flames. When asked if there looked to be anyone inside the carriage house at the time that they saw the man, both witnesses said that they thought they saw a light on, but couldn’t be certain.
It was the description of the longer hair, I supposed, that made Edward Sharpe a suspect. But if he was seen at 8:30 PM, as the neighbor suggested, why did the fire not start until thirty minutes later? Perhaps the neighbor was simply off on the time. Or was there a second figure lurking around at 9 PM. The neighbor was sure that the church bells had not rung yet when she saw the man, and the passerby on the street was certain that he was still on his way home when the church bells tolled. Yet the investigators had been satisfied that this had been the same man, and that man was Sharpe. Still, they didn’t arrest him. If it was him, it made no sense that he would go back a second time that night and double his chances of being seen. Even if Sharpe was guilty, and I’m not convinced he was, I feel sure that there were two people there that night.
The police didn’t speak to Julienne or the girls much. Official records show that Julienne notified the poli
ce that the parents hadn’t arrived home the following morning. Perhaps thinking that the parents had been up late or drunk a bit too much and decided to stay at Johanna’s sister’s house, police waited until that evening to start their search. Nothing unusual was discovered, other than Johanna’s renewed energy and enthusiasm at the party the last night she was seen alive. As I’d previously suspected, the car was not found and it was thought it may have skidded off the road and over the edge into the water.
I jot down the new pieces of information, as well as my thoughts on the photos. After the accounts of a man, or multiple men, lurking around the house that night, I am convinced the fire was no accident. It wasn’t much of a consideration previously, but now I feel quite sure I can rule that out. Whoever set the fire had seen the light on, if the witnesses’ memories served them, and had assumed that Julienne was in the carriage house. That meant that, at the very least, it was someone who knew that she slept there, although carriage houses were often used for guests or workers so that didn’t narrow the field much. Another thought jumps into my mind. So far, I’ve been focusing on Julienne, assuming that someone wanted to harm her. It makes sense - it was her sleeping quarters most nights - but perhaps someone else was the target. What if someone wanted to upset the family by burning down their property. Someone could have known that she wasn’t in the carriage house that night and set the fire as a warning. Or maybe they thought someone else would be there with her - Sharpe, perhaps, or the children - though it was tough to imagine anyone would want to harm those beautiful girls. It could have been someone with a vendetta against James Sheffield for an arrest he’d made. He was the police chief, after all. I don’t think that’s the case, but it I can’t rule it out, at least not yet. I have to keep in mind that the parents disappeared the same night, and afterwards, all three girls. Even Sharpe was nowhere to be found. Any of them could have been the target. If someone had something against Julienne, why harm the others? And what could a nineteen year old au pair from France, via England, living quietly in a small town, do to deserve such animosity. None of it makes sense.
There is, of course, the possibility that it was a terrible coincidence. That someone did intentionally set fire to the carriage house, but that the parent’s disappearance was a tragic accident. The parents could have been rushing home after hearing about the fire and swerved too fast around a bend in the road. But the police found no skidmarks, and no car ever surfaced. And then there’s the disappearance of everyone else. I have to admit, signs do point to Sharpe. So why can’t I convince myself? He was an outsider that nobody knew, which made him stick out. And someone matching his description, at least vaguely, had been seen by the house that night. I decide I need to take a break from sleuthing for a while, and that being in the company of others will help me get out of my own head for a while.
I give Grace a call. “I’d love to get some dinner,” she agrees eagerly. “I love pops, but I have been in the house all day because he’s come down with a cold.” “I’m sorry to hear that. Not bad, I hope?” I adore Billy. He is a great guy, if a bit rough around the edges at times, and he and Grace are quickly becoming my local family. “Meet you at Corner Bistro in a half hour? I need to throw on something presentable. And he’s fine, just a bit under the weather I think.”
Chapter 6
I leave early, knowing that if I stay any longer I’ll get caught back up in the book. As I sit at the bar waiting for Grace, sipping an IPA, my phone buzzes with a text from Nan. “Still in love with the new place?” “I am. It’s perfect for writing.” I reply. “How’s the book coming along?” “Great, actually. Writing looking out at the gardens never gets old.” “And your Sherlock Holmes work?” she teases. “Even more intriguing than writing my book. A little frustrating too.” I admit. “Still haven’t found out anything more about the door,” I add, knowing Nan’s unusual interest in it. “I thought you’d have broken through the lock by now.” I can hear the laugh behind her words. “I’m trying to be patient. I told Billy and Grace about the dreams. I hope you don’t mind. They seemed very impressed.” “Oh brother, they’ll think I’m as kookie as you,” she teases. “Have you had anymore?” “Not at all. I’d mostly forgotten about it.” She is lying, and I know it. Maybe she hasn’t had any more dreams, but she hasn’t forgotten about them. The world ‘mostly’ is my clue. Nan has a busy life full of constant mental bombardment. The fact that it hasn’t completely slipped her mind means that it still plagues her. For her sake, I vow to figure out what lay behind it. Besides, I am plenty curious myself.
I hear movement to my right, and turn to see Grace taking the barstool next to mine. “Grace is here, I’ll text later.” I write quickly to Nan. “Love you,” she replies. “Love you too.” The fact that my family, even standoffish Nan, is so emotionally expressive makes me happy. I know friends that would rather die than have to tell their family members they love them. It is my family’s love and support that has gotten me through the last year, and I won’t soon forget it.
Grace and I exchange quick hugs. “Want to just eat at the bar?” Grace asks. “Ah a woman after my own heart,” I agree. The bartender, who must have heard us, brings over two menus. “Haven’t seen you in awhile,” he says, looking at Grace. “I’m back for the summer. And this,” she inclines her head towards me, “is Henrietta. She just moved here to write her first novel. She’s staying in my dad’s cottage on Cooper. “Hennie,” I interject. “Hennie,” he repeats, extending his hand. “That’s a unique name. A pretty one,” he adds after a pause, presumably in case he’d offended me. “There’s a story behind it, but probably not an interesting one,” I smile to show him no harm done. “And don’t worry, I’ve been named after a man my whole life. I’m Ok with it not being a pretty one.” He laughs, and I noticed his deep green eyes, and the crinkle at the corners. “Oh, Greg would love that story. He teaches British History,” Grace chimes in. I looked at Greg and, to my dismay, my surprise must show on my face, because he shrugs and laughs. It’s my turn to feel bad. “Yep. Bartending part time just helps pay the bills. Plus it’s the ultimate study in people. And people make history. So really, I like to consider it research.” He pauses. “Stories like how the intriguing new woman in town is named after a man and unabashedly proud of it, even if she won’t admit it.” There go his crinkling eyes again. My heart jumps ever so slightly, in spite of myself. Is he flirting with me, I wonder for a second. Then I remember that it’s a bartender’s job to be friendly and ensure that people enjoy their time.
“I’m named after King Henry VIII of England. My sisters - and my dog - are named after his wives,” I smile a little apologetically, assuming it isn’t nearly as intriguing as he indicated a moment before. “I’m guessing you’re the oldest, and were supposed to be a boy.” He replies, a statement more than a question. I nod, impressed. “Well, kind of. I was always supposed to be a girl, but until the first ultrasound on which they could tell the gender, my parents assumed I’d be a boy.” “Makes sense,” he agrees with a slight pause before continuing. “If they’re going along with Tudor England theory, parents always prepared for a boy to carry their name and bloodline. Succession, of course. If the baby was a girl, they named her often to honor the queen, or a parent. So who got stuck with Anne of Cleves,” he laughs. At least he knows his Tudors. “Well, nobody per se. The next oldest is Anna, but for Anne Boleyn. Nan is much more the Anne Boleyn type,” I assure him. “Wow, same nicknames even? You’re lucky you didn’t become Harry instead of Hennie.” I laugh, not sure if he is making fun of me or teasing me good naturedly. I decide to give him the benefit of the doubt. “You make a good point.” “I’m fascinated by Tudor England. You’ll have to tell me more sometime. But for now, I should really offer you another drink.” I look down and noticed my beer glass is empty. I turn to Grace to let her order first, hoping she hasn’t minded our Tudor exchange - she’s the one who actually knows Greg, and I feel bad taking away from their visiting time. But wh
en I look up, she’s all smiles, and raises an eyebrow almost imperceptibly. I realize in that moment that she reminds me of my little sister Cat. They have that same bright aura, that vibrancy for life that you can feel just being near them. No wonder she and I get along so well.
Grace can see I haven’t thought much about my next drink. “I’ll take a dirty Grey Goose martini.” Greg turns to me. “I’ll have a Manhattan on the rocks.” I scan the bourbon options. “Bourbon choice?” “Your choice. I don’t need top shelf,” I add, knowing how pricey bourbon can get. “You sure? This round is on me. You should take advantage of it,” Greg jokes. “Well, in that case, I’ll take whatever you put in yours.” “You girls are no joke. It’s nice to get some more refined drinkers in here. So often I spend my nights making chocolate martinis and tequila sunrises,” he inclines his head to a group of women probably ten to fifteen years older than us. “Or the occasional college students home on break wanting irish car bombs and Jager shots. I must make a reactive face because Grace looks at me and laughs “What do you say, Hennie. Sounds like a good order for our next round.” Then, switching gears, as Greg shakes his head in mock disgust and walks to take someone else’s order, “So how is the research going?”
“Well, I finally found the full names of the girls.” I fill her in on my conversation with Claudia from Green Goods, my book research, my impressions of the family photos, and my hunch about Edward Sharpe. “Anything on the family in England?” she asks. “It’s so strange. Cat’s been helping me with that, and she can find absolutely nothing. There’s not even any census record of them, or whatever they do in England.” “Nothing at all?” She must realize that it sounds like she doesn’t believe me, and quickly adds, “I just mean, I’m surprised how tough they are to track down.” “I’m amazed too,” I agree. “I checked every piece of information I have on Julienne LaBame and even on Edward Sharpe. Cat did the same. “Perhaps a maiden name?” Grace suggests. “We tried. Unfortunately, Eleanor from Greenwich 1923 is a bit of a wild goose chase. I even tried Eleanor LaBame and Eleanor Sharpe, thinking perhaps she’s a relative of one of theirs. I’m skeptical, but it was all I could think of. They have to be connected somehow.” “You know, that’s not all that far fetched,” Grace replies. My mind starts to wander… Young French girl whose family has fallen on hard times is sent to work as an au pair at her wealthy aunt’s house in England. And we know nothing about her parents. I’ve been assuming they were French because of her last name, but her mother could have been British. Or perhaps it was her father, sired a baby out of wedlock with a French woman and so the mother kept the maiden name, but he sent her to some relative of his as his way of doing his part for the family.
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