Still, Forever, Promise

by D. L. Merritt

  The daughter’s the only one who would benefit, but I can’t get any dirt on her either. She keeps a low profile. She has a business website and Facebook page, but no personal account on any of the popular social media sites. She had access to the yacht, and she didn’t have a good alibi for that night, claiming she was at her office working late on a client’s drawings. I couldn’t find one person to verify her story, but maybe she already knew that.

  This case had him stumped. He’d never left anything to speculation, and he wouldn’t start now. He’d scour through all the evidence again and again and again to see if he’d missed anything.

  I know I’m close. I can feel it. Somethings bound to come up. It always does.

  Chapter 22

  The next day rain had settled over the city and refused to leave. Brianna was determined to talk to the retired librarian in spite of the bad weather. With the anticipation of discovering more clues, she grabbed an umbrella and headed out.

  Bumper-to-bumper traffic greeted her, and the street in front of the bookstore was lined with cars. She found a parking spot on the next block and made a run for the shop, aptly named Yesterday, Today, and Tomorrow, dodging raindrops and puddles along the way. A bell over the door jangled as she ducked inside right before the drizzle became a torrential downpour. Brianna jammed her umbrella into an open container by the door, surprised to find it nearly full and the store already crowded, despite the weather and hour.

  The scents of vanilla, fruity almond, and the unpleasant hint of cigarette smoke were familiar, comforting.

  Every wall held towering shelves jammed with books, new and used. She would love to come back when she would have more time to browse. Today, she was here to find answers.

  A young couple sat in two of the four comfortable chairs placed in a semicircle by the front window. They were absorbed in reading the same book. The woman would pull the book toward her, and the man would pull it back. Brianna couldn’t help but smile, tempted to pick out a book and take a seat next to them.

  A woman in a tie-dyed skirt and pink T-shirt stood behind the counter, calculating trade credits with a customer. Brianna thought she resembled a flower child from the 60s, with her glasses attached to a necklace of multicolored beads and her wild, curly, gray hair draped across her shoulders.

  The woman stopped counting and used her index finger to shove her thick glasses up the bridge of her nose. Could this be Ms. Jane? The woman didn’t look like any librarian she’d ever encountered.

  The woman finished the transaction and glanced up. She flashed Brianna a brilliant smile before scrambling from behind the cluttered counter. “Welcome, welcome,” she said with her hands aflutter. “What can I help you find? If you’re interested in rare books, we have our oldest collection in the other room.” She pointed to a doorway curtained with strings of crystal beads.

  “Connie Smith said she spoke with you. I’m Brianna Rossi, the new owner of Monroe Manor.”

  “So you’re the one who was brave enough to buy the place. It’s nice to meet you,” she said with a firm, friendly handshake.

  Brianna nodded. Does she know about the ghost?

  Ms. Jane responded to her unspoken question. “I imagine you’ve found out Monroe Manor is haunted. I’ve heard stories about the place from relatives my entire life.”

  Brianna remained silent.

  “I know what you’re thinking. I don’t look like the stereotypical librarian.”

  You got that right.

  “You expected a spinster with a pencil behind her ear and her hair in a bun. After spending the last forty years conforming to society’s expectations, I’ve become quite a rebel. When I retired, I decided to share my love of reading with fellow book lovers. This space became available during the renovation of the downtown area, and here we are. My husband, Walter, has worked with me since his retirement two years ago. We swap duties every now and then. One will work the front counter while the other stocks, and then we switch when we need to. It keeps us from getting bored.”

  Brianna looked around the crowded store. “I never considered that you might be busy. Should I come back when it’s more convenient?”

  “Now’s as good a time as any. Connie said you have some questions about the house. How can I help?”

  “I’ve tried to research Monroe Manor on my own, but I haven’t had much luck. Connie mentioned you were related to one of the owners and had information that I might be interested in hearing.”

  “That’s right,” Ms. Jane said, patting Brianna’s arm. “We can talk in the rare book section. Not many of my customers go in there. Most of them are only interested in romance novels.”

  She directed Brianna through the crystal beads into what looked like a conference room. A large table with twelve upholstered chairs dominated the space. Shelves filled with antique books and rare editions lined the walls.

  “Have a seat. I’ll find Walter. He can cover the front while we chat. This might take a while. Would you like something to drink?”

  “Water, please.”

  “I’ll be right back. You’re welcome to browse,” Ms. Jane said.

  Brianna meandered around the room, running her hand across the books. They covered a variety of topics, and many were classics from the 1700s and 1800s. She would love to come back when she had more time. She’d spotted several books that piqued her interest.

  Ms. Jane returned carrying a glass of ice water and a cup of coffee. “I’m a coffee drinker myself. I know I drink more than I should, but at my age, it’s impossible to change bad habits.”

  “Connie said you had first-hand information about the manor,” Brianna said, accepting the water. “What can you tell me?”

  “Some of what I’ve gathered is from stories handed down through my family. A lot of it comes from personal research. I’m a distant cousin of Mr. Conklin, the man who jumped out of his office window after the stock market crash of ’29.”

  “I remember reading about him at the library.”

  “Not many people go there these days, with online books and all. I’ve always been fascinated with books. I love the way they smell and feel. When I touch an old book, I always wonder who owned it, when and where they lived . . . and how they died.”

  Brianna realized Ms. Jane shared her enthusiasm.

  “Anyhow, Mr. Page was the man who built the manor. His wife was frail from a long-standing illness and couldn’t have children.”

  “I read she had tuberculosis, and that’s how she died.”

  “That’s right. Well, Mr. Page had a mistress, Loretta Kennedy.”

  “Is that why she inherited the house, because she was his mistress?”

  “I believe so. After his wife died, Mr. Page no longer kept his mistress a secret. He would stroll downtown with her on his arm, flaunting her in society’s face. He was considered an outsider. The townspeople never accepted him, despite his wealth. I think he gave her the estate to thumb his nose at them. I’ve seen the document where he willed his home and mines to her. She got everything. It wasn’t long after she moved into the house that she turned it into a high-class brothel, the only one in town. It turned out to be a lucrative business venture. She was born on the wrong side of the tracks, if you know what I mean, and never married. I’d heard she was obsessed with power and money.”

  “Didn’t the town try to put her out of business?”

  “She paid the law to protect her and her girls. Apparently she was quite charismatic, had influential friends and politicians in her pocket. Many of the upstanding male citizens frequented her brothel at one time or another. They wouldn’t have wanted her to go out of business. Only their wives did.”

  “That explains a lot. During my research, I saw her listed as an owner, but I didn’t know how she acquired the house.”

  “Mr. Page had one friend in Fairmont, the editor of the local newspaper. I’m sure he kept any scandal attached to his friend out of the papers. The townspeople wanted to forget the brothel ex
isted. As far as they were concerned, it was a blight on their community, and as they couldn’t run her out of town, they turned a blind eye. Let me show you what she looked like,” Ms. Jane said as she hurried over to the tallest bookshelf. She trailed her fingers across the spines until she found the right book.

  “I heard she was attractive when she was younger.” Ms. Jane slid the heavy book in front of Brianna and tapped on a black-and-white photograph of an older-looking woman dressed in early twentieth-century attire. “From this picture, it doesn’t look like life had been too kind to her. But in her defense, she was under a lot of stress from the scandal when this picture was taken.”

  The photograph showed a woman in her late fifties with an angular face and slit-like eyes. Her nose was prominent, long, and had a slight hook on the end, positioned on top of thin, pursed lips. She wore her hair parted down the middle and gathered in a neat bun at the back of her head. She appeared stern, unyielding.

  “What kind of scandal?” Brianna asked.

  “Two prostitutes who worked for her died in the house. The first one was Rebecca Mathis. Her death was considered questionable.”

  I wonder if that’s the Becky from James’s letter?

  “The official cause of death was pneumonia, although one of the other girls in the house told the police her death was due to a botched abortion by Ms. Kennedy’s personal physician. The doctor had treated Ms. Mathis a couple days before her death. Not long after that, another girl in Ms. Kennedy’s employ was found dead. A young woman named Sarah Satterfield.”

  That’s my Sarah. “Did she die from a botched abortion too?”

  “According to the coroner’s report, she committed suicide. Her autopsy revealed she was pregnant. By who, no one knows.”

  “How did she kill herself?” Brianna asked.

  “She drank tea made from tansy leaves. It’s quite toxic, and in those days known to be used, though often not successfully, as a form of abortion. She was only sixteen when she died.”

  “I found an empty can of tansy leaves in a dresser in the attic. I believe it belonged to Sarah. Now I know why it was there. How did she end up working in the brothel? She was so young.”

  “From what I’ve been able to piece together from letters and journals, Sarah’s father worked in one of the mines owned by Ms. Kennedy. Not having any knowledge of how to run a mine, she left it in the hands of a rather unscrupulous man. He pocketed the money meant for repairs. As the mines fell into ruin, there was a horrible cave-in. Sarah’s father nearly died trying to pull some of his men from the rubble. He couldn’t work for months. I was able to get my hands on one of Ms. Kennedy’s personal ledgers. There was an entry in there for a payment made to Mr. Satterfield for $200. It was for Sarah. She was to service Ms. Kennedy’s exclusive clientele until she’d repaid the debt. I assume Sarah was a virgin for her father to receive that amount of money. It was a lot for that time”

  James mentioned in his letters that he wanted to free Sarah from her debt. It was her father’s debt not hers. No wonder she killed herself. When James died, all hope of escape died with him. “Did any of Ms. Kennedy’s girls ever leave?”

  “I doubt it. The brothel usually provided room and board and the clothes the girls wore. The madam would then keep a part of the girls’ earnings to cover the cost. The girls barely had enough left to buy essentials, let alone save enough for them to get out on their own.”

  “How could a father sell his daughter, knowing what kind of life he was subjecting her to?”

  “In those days, $200 would have fed a family for a year. If he wanted to keep his family alive, he didn’t have much of a choice. They had six children. That’s a lot of mouths to feed.”

  “Did the father of Sarah’s child ever come forward?”

  “Not that I know of. It could have been any one of the brothel’s clients.”

  “If the father was a prominent man in the community, isn’t it possible he had her killed to keep the pregnancy a secret?” Brianna said.

  “It’s possible. From what I’ve been able to piece together, she had a boyfriend. No one knew who it was.”

  James. “I understand your cousin, Mr. Conklin, bought the property after Ms. Kennedy. Did he know what happened to her?”

  “Different stories have circulated through the years. Some say it was natural causes, others accidental. I’ve even heard an irate customer murdered her. The one my family always told was that she committed suicide.”

  “If she was so successful, why would she do that?”

  “After the second girl died, the authorities reopened Rebecca’s case. The town was in an uproar, demanding justice for those two girls. A trial was set to hear the case. I heard Ms. Kennedy couldn’t bear the thought of going to prison and she . . .” Ms. Jane put her finger to her throat and swiped across her neck.

  A puzzled expression crossed Brianna’s face. Looks like I have three more possibilities for the black shadow: Becky, Sarah, and Ms. Kennedy. All three would be full of anger over their tragic deaths.

  “After my cousin, you know . . . the bank took the house, and his wife and daughter were evicted. They moved back to Baltimore where Mrs. Conklin’s family lived. The house was vacant for most of the Depression years until Mr. Monroe moved to town in 1936. He ran the local five-and-dime store.”

  “Yes, I read that. I purchased the manor from the granddaughter of Mr. and Mrs. Monroe.” Brianna swallowed the last of her water and checked the time on her watch. She’d been at the bookstore for almost two hours. “I should go. I didn’t mean to take up so much of your time.”

  “No problem. I love talking about the past. If you leave me your number, I’ll do a little more research on the manor. If I find anything else, I’ll give you a call.”

  “I’d appreciate that. One more thing. Have you heard or read about a man named James Cleary associated with Sarah or the house?”

  “Name’s not familiar.”

  “Well, thank you for taking the time to see me.”

  “You’re quite welcome. Come back any time.”

  Once Brianna was outside in the fresh air, she took a deep breath. It felt like she stood on the edge of a precipitous cliff. The more she learned, the closer she got to the edge.

  Ms. Jane had given her a lot to think about. How much of it was true or gossip, she couldn’t say. But Ms. Jane didn’t seem like the kind of person to spout off nonsense. She would want her facts to be accurate.

  Brianna navigated down the busy street, scurrying around puddles as she looked for the address of the new fabric store she’d found on the internet. Finding the right colors and patterns for the drapes had proven to be a difficult task.

  The shop had a vast selection of material, and Brianna spent an hour picking through samples before she found the perfect ones. The clerk said she’d have the fabric cut to Brianna’s measurements, and the store’s seamstress would start on them right away. Brianna left her card for the manager to contact her once the drapes were completed.

  Brianna no longer needed the umbrella. The sky now had pockets of blue with only a residual amount of rain clouds. The storm was almost over, but what about the storm brewing at the manor. She’d heard that remodeling a house could stir up ghosts that had been dormant for years. Was it her fault the spirit was angry? Could she find a way to stop it or keep it from getting worse? She’d have to wait and see.

  Pleased with the results of the day, she returned home to eat a dinner of leftovers. Ben called at his usual time. They discussed the likelihood that one of the three women haunted the manor. She’d thought it was Sarah, but now she leaned toward Ms. Kennedy. She would never forget the woman’s austere expression that exuded a nasty disposition.

  “If everything goes as planned, I’ll be home earlier than I thought. This assignment has been one of the easiest I’ve had in the last six months. Get some sleep, Bree. When I get back, we’ll put our heads together and find out what’s going on.”

  But could she wa
it that long?

  She hadn’t mentioned the phone calls she’d made to Charleston in search of someone related to James. It would be a moot point anyway if no one answered her message.

  Ben had an early start the next morning, and though reluctant to hang up, she did.

  She slipped into comfortable cotton sleep shorts and matching cami before walking into the bathroom to brush her teeth and wash her face. The usual pops and bangs of an old house suddenly seemed uncanny, and the ticking of the grandfather clock overshadowing the hiss of the wind outside unnerved her. She left the bathroom light on, hoping it would make her feel safer, and climbed into bed.

  As she stared at the ceiling, she struggled to comprehend the magnitude of her situation. There was someone or something haunting Monroe Manor. She didn’t know who it was or what their intentions were, but she knew they were here and it terrified her.

  Chapter 23

  Jolted out of a dead sleep, Brianna blinked several times to clear her vision. Hours ago, the room had been warm and embracing. Now it held a chilling oppressiveness.

  Though she’d left the bathroom light on, it only illuminated one corner of the room, and the slivers of moonlight escaping through the window blinds did little to lessen the shadowy darkness. Brianna waited, fearful, the covers pulled up to her chin. She took a deep breath to calm her nerves and was suddenly struck by a strange smell, an odd mixture of damp dirt and rotting flesh.

  If she did nothing, she’d become an easy target for an attack. Deciding to take the offensive, she sat up, anticipating the cold hands of death reaching out to grab her at any moment.

  Nothing happened.

  The clock registered 1:00 a.m. The click of the minute hand flipping echoed through the room. The occasional creak of the house settling seemed amplified.

  She felt a presence, but nothing was discernible in the darkness.