The Impersonator (Leah Randall/Jessie Carr Novels)

by Miley, Mary

  He bowed. I left Chen near his home, filled the fuel tank, and drove up the winding road to Cliff House, elated with my discovery. My hunch had been correct. The same person had killed both women and commemorated the deed with locks of their dark hair. Since both were poor and neither was white, the authorities wasted little time on the cases. Could these two deaths have any relation to Jessie’s disappearance? My sixth sense told me they did, that Jessie had been murdered too, but intuition without evidence would get me laughed out of the police station.

  Halfway home, a sick feeling came over me, so strong I had to pull over to the side of the road. I remembered Jessie’s treasure box. The one Buster had saved for her for seven years. The one with a lock of auburn hair inside. Could Buster be involved in this? I wouldn’t believe it. Buster loved Jessie. He was her only friend. And yet … he was big and strong and didn’t always realize his own strength. What if it had been an accident?

  No, if Buster had somehow been involved in Jessie’s death, he would not have believed, even for a minute, that I was Jessie. And until I had taken off my stocking, he had believed. Breathing deeply, I guided the Ford back onto the road and back to Cliff House.

  I could no longer avoid talking to Oliver.

  I found him in the library writing a letter. His eyebrows arched in surprise as I closed the door and came to stand on the other side of the desk.

  “A few days ago, I walked along the cliff south of the house. When Jessie went missing, did they search all those crevices along the edge?”

  “Naturally. They even lowered lanterns to the bottom of the deeper ones. Why do you ask?”

  “I think Jessie’s dead.”

  “I told you that in Omaha.”

  “I think she was killed.”

  “A distinct possibility,” he said carelessly. I hated him.

  “I think she stumbled into something criminal and was murdered, like the Indian girl.”

  “Are you going gaga on me? That dead squaw has nothing to do with Jessie. It was some tribal feud.”

  “That’s just what the lazy sheriff said to avoid an investigation.”

  “And how do you know that?”

  “I talked to some of her people on the reservation a few days ago. I rode over with the stable boy.”

  His eyes narrowed as he contemplated that. “You’ve been snooping?”

  “A Chinese girl was also strangled a few years ago along Dexter’s waterfront. Her father believes she was involved in something illegal. I talked to him this afternoon. I’m sure these two murders are related, and I think Jessie’s disappearance is too. Dexter is a pretty small town to have three young women killed in a seven-year span. It can’t be coincidence.”

  Oliver hoisted his bulk from behind the desk and transported himself to my side. His face grew mottled with the effort of controlling his rage, and his breathing became uneven. “You unspeakable little tramp. How dare you traipse around playing detective? Your job is to impersonate my niece, not to stir up trouble all over town.”

  Without warning, he slapped me. Twice. Hard.

  “I don’t give a tinker’s damn about who’s dead and who’s not, but I know someone who is going to be dead very soon if she doesn’t play the part she was hired to play.”

  And when I’d finished playing that part, when Oliver’s pudgy fingers were securely wrapped around a large chunk of Carr money, would he decide that a dead accomplice was safer than a live one?

  26

  “One, two, three, turn. Left, step, left, step. Tiny steps, now circle left in four counts—no, Valerie, left.”

  It was to have been a simple song-and-dance routine, performed by the twins and me for the family on a rainy day, but, as theatricals are wont to do, the play ran away with us. In no time we were the Carr Cousins with plans for half a dozen short acts, including two poetry recitations that their governess, Mrs. Applewhite, agreed to supervise, plus magic tricks, a twin act, and a song and dance for the three of us: “Three Little Maids from School Are We,” what else? Nothing but the third-floor ballroom would do for our theater, and the twins and I spent every spare moment working on the show—there were costumes to plan and sew, scenery to design and paint, lyrics and dance steps to memorize, and magic tricks to practice over and over again.

  The redoubtable Mrs. Applewhite had moved back into her suite on the second floor. I liked her at once. Short, plump, and energetic, she had returned to Cliff House the previous Sunday with her arms full of mind-improving books and a last-chance resolve to muscle as much knowledge as she could into her charges’ heads. But she also had a rare ability to work lessons into everyday life, and she saw our theatrical production as an opportunity for learning.

  Caroline was quicker to master the routines, unencumbered as she was by modesty, but Valerie had the better voice—if I could coax her to use it. Coordinating the two of them proved harder than I thought. The fancy oak Victrola provided the music. I had sent for several records from Portland, so all we had to do was sing along. I demonstrated the song and dance from Gilbert and Sullivan’s The Mikado that my mother had taught me when I was a little girl. If I live to a hundred, I will remember those steps.

  Three little maids from school are we

  Pert as a school-girl well can be

  Filled to the brim with girlish glee

  Three little maids from school.

  “Stop!” shrieked Valerie. She caught a glimpse of Ross peering into the ballroom from the hallway.

  “Come on in, Ross,” I called as he scuttered away. “You can critique us.”

  “No!” Valerie protested. “I can’t practice with someone watching!”

  “Never mind.” His voice came from around the corner. “My eyes are shut, and I didn’t see a thing. I don’t want to interrupt you.”

  “Come in,” I insisted. “Sit there and watch. We’ve got the first part down. Come on, girls, it’s good to practice in front of an audience.” I put the needle on the record, and the music forced them to begin the routine.

  Aunt Victoria came up the stairs. “Girls, it’s two o’clock and Mr. Tyndall has arrived. Time for your art lesson.”

  “But we’re rehearsing,” protested Caroline.

  “We need a break,” I said, “and maybe Mr. Tyndall could help with some ideas for the design of the Mikado backdrop. While you’re working on that, I’ll dash into town and buy some canvas and paint.”

  It was a plan. They trooped downstairs, and I headed for my new Ford.

  “Would you like me to come with you?” asked Ross.

  I was instantly alert. “What for?”

  He shrugged. “I can help carry paint cans and canvas.” I looked around, realizing I had not seen Henry since lunch. “I sent my thesis off yesterday, and I’m not doing anything.”

  The abrupt change in demeanor put me on my guard. He wanted to help with the production? Had he turned a corner in his doubts about my identity? I needed to find out. What else could I say except, “Well, sure. I’ll put you to work. Come along.”

  We headed to the shed where I kept my car out of the elements. I expected him to demand the key, but to my surprise he climbed into the passenger seat.

  “Doesn’t it make you nervous to ride with a woman?”

  “If you don’t mind, I’ll wait and see how you handle this bronco before I answer that.”

  “Most men wouldn’t care to be seen with a woman driving,” I said as I steered down the long driveway.

  “Long as you miss those trees and keep the wheels on the road, I’ll keep my opinion to myself. Did you get your permit?”

  “Not yet, but I sent in the quarter and it should arrive in this week’s mail.”

  “Caroline and Valerie look like they’re having the time of their lives with this show. When do you think you’ll be ready?”

  “That’s hard to say. We just started, and there’s a lot to do.”

  “Maybe I can help. I don’t thread a needle, but I’m steady with a paintbrush
and pretty good at rigging things.” He gave me an apologetic glance. “I’ve really nothing else to do but wait for word that my thesis is accepted.” Waiting was something I understood all too well. The trustees’ report had still not arrived and I was getting antsy.

  I’d been over it a thousand times in my head. Three days was all it should have taken. In three days a Pinkerton could catch the train for Milwaukee where Variety placed the Little Darlings, have a nice visit with Jock and Francine about the time I’d spent with their act, and return with a pretty report, neatly typed, paper clipped together in a leather presentation folder. Three days. Four if they were incompetent. What had gone wrong?

  “To tell you the truth, we could use a man’s help with the backdrop. If I can get what I need in town, we can start on that today. Maybe … if everything goes well, we could shoot for a performance in two weeks.”

  “Great.”

  “By the way, what’s the latest on the Indian girl’s death?”

  “What?”

  “I mean, have the police made any headway? Any suspects?”

  “Don’t be silly. I told you there wouldn’t be any investigation once the sheriff decided it was some tribal vendetta. Which it wasn’t. I finally persuaded one of the younger Killamook men to tell me that the girl had been involved in something illegal. What, he wouldn’t say or didn’t know, but to my mind, that means prostitution, smuggling, bootlegging, or maybe theft. We’ll never know. No one cares what happens to an Indian girl.”

  “You do.”

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  “Because of your research?”

  “My research?” He gave a thin smile. “Maybe just because I like dark-haired women.”

  I took the sharp turns carefully and reached the bottom of the hill without once seeing Ross press his foot against the floorboard or reach for the wheel. As we approached the town limits, I opened my mouth to ask which way to go to the hardware store when my predicament slapped me square in the face.

  Jessie would know where the hardware store was. I didn’t even know its name.

  Think!

  “Oh, dear.” I sighed audibly. I took several deep breaths, inhaling through my nose and exhaling through my mouth. It took a few repetitions; he wasn’t very perceptive.

  “Is something wrong?” he asked finally.

  “No, I … yes … oh, dear, I think I’d better stop before—” I pulled over to the gravel edge of the road and got out of the car, clutching my stomach.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’ll be fine. Just give me a moment. I think it’s this winding road. I’m feeling rather seasick.”

  “Maybe I’d better drive?”

  Bingo. I handed him the keys with a look of regret, and after a few moments climbed into the passenger seat, still breathing deeply.

  “Shouldn’t we wait a while longer? I wouldn’t want you to be sick in this nice new car.”

  “No, I’m better now. I just needed to settle my stomach, and the curves are done. Go on.” I sat limply beside him and looked out the window as we entered town and turned left, then right, and onto the planked main street that paralleled the wharf, passing by the Polly Anna Bake Shop and Café on the right and the Cozy Corner Confectionery across from it. On Dock Street, Ross found room to park the flivver up against the wooden sidewalk in front of the rain barrels outside Berkeley and Son Hardware, and we got out.

  Across from us fishing boats and pleasure craft were tied up at several piers. A cannery stood at the end of the point and warehouses and shops lined the street. It was a busy time of day with fishermen cleaning their shiny catches on tables at the edge of the water to the delight of a squadron of gulls that dove for the fish guts tossed into the bay. The cannery shift was changing and workers, mostly Chinamen and Indians, trudged down the street, lunch pails in hand, heading home. The moist air smelled of ocean, fish, and tar.

  Ross and I wound our way past the casks of nails and coils of hemp rope to the back of the store where the owner was struggling with a parcel of rakes.

  “What can I help you with, Mr. Carr?”

  “Miss Carr needs some things.” Ross had his faults, but at least he wasn’t one of those superior-minded men who always try to take over from women.

  “I’ll need the biggest muslin or canvas sheets you have, the sort painters use for drop cloth would do. Three of them. And half a dozen cans of paint—black, white, green, and the primaries—with assorted brushes and turpentine and some—”

  “Pa! Pa!” A tousled-haired boy of about fourteen burst through the screen door, letting it fly shut with a bang. Panting and sweating, he pulled the cap off his head and pushed the hair out of his eyes. “There’s a coroner from Portland going t’come identify the bones!”

  “William! Hold off, son, I’m with a customer! Excuse me, Miss Carr, but—”

  “What bones?” I asked, seized by a premonition of disaster.

  “There was a warehouse fire last night,” said the storekeeper. “You know the empty Kelsey building back of us on Second Street? It half burned down before the volunteers could put it out, but they found a body—or the remains of a body—inside.”

  “It was hidden,” said William, flush with the importance of a boy who knew something the adults didn’t. “Under the stairs to the loft was a room … not a room, a closet, a little place with a door that was locked. They hacked into there with their axes and found a body. Doc Milner said it was a girl with a broken neck. Deader than a dodo’s grandfather. Not killed by the fire. He said she’d been dead five or ten years. Nobody knows who it was, and Doc Milner’s not a real coroner, so they called for a real coroner to try to tell who it was.”

  The bones in my knees dissolved. Ross slid a stool behind me not a second too soon.

  They’d found Jessie.

  27

  I have never suffered from stage fright and refused to start now. Finding Jessie’s body required ad-libbing and steady nerves, like the time the orchestra played Offenbach instead of Gershwin, or Darcy upchucked on stage, or the costumes went to St. Louis while the show went to St. Paul. My cue card said “Exit Stage Left.” Not in some panic-stricken flight but calmly, in a dignified manner. The circumstances were so dire that even Oliver’s threat to ruin my career no longer deterred me. Unemployment was preferable to prison.

  To be honest, part of me was relieved the charade was over. Another part felt a sense of grim satisfaction that Oliver’s grand scheme had failed. I’d have loved to see his reaction when the news hit, but I’d be long gone by then.

  There was no need to rush. Coroners don’t issue same-day rulings. It would be days, weeks perhaps, before his medical investigation was finished and he presented his findings to the police. He would correlate the details of the girl’s remains—hair, clothing, jewelry perhaps—with the list of young females missing between roughly 1914 and 1919. The authorities would note that the reappearance of Jessie Carr involved some initial doubts as to her identity, and they would put two and two together. By the time they reached four, I’d be gone. Toronto, I thought. I had already chosen my new name. I should have gone straight to Oliver to warn him that the game was up and that I would be leaving soon, but the scene in the library had cost him any loyalty I might have owed him.

  My conscience pricked. In the short time I’d been at Cliff House, I had come to care for the girls, and I would miss Aunt Victoria’s peculiar mixture of flightiness and competence. Grandmother’s protective love felt better than a warm blanket on a cold night. Pretending they were family had started to make it seem so. They would be hurt when they learned about my deception, then angry at having been suckered. Henry would crow. Ross would say he knew all along I wasn’t Jessie.

  The gig was up. Professionally speaking, I think I would have succeeded had not fate lit a fire in an old warehouse. I would miss the ironed sheets and swell food. But the worst would be never knowing the whole truth about what had happened to Jessie. I had come to think of m
yself as her stand-in, her understudy, called up to take the part she couldn’t finish. Jessie had crept under my skin. I cared for her. I wanted to know who had killed her. I wanted someone to pay for the crime.

  On the drive home, the possibilities ran unbidden through my head. One, Jessie had crawled into the space below the stairs to hide from someone, been accidentally locked in, and starved to death. I gave that low marks. It didn’t explain the broken neck. Two, Jessie had been the victim of a kidnapping gone wrong. Oliver had expressed that opinion when we first met. The theory had one glaring defect—kidnappers kidnapped for money. Killing the kid benefited no one. Perhaps her death was accidental—she had stumbled down the warehouse steps trying to escape and broken her neck before the kidnappers had had the chance to send their ransom note. Well, it was a possibility.

  Three, someone strangled her and stashed her body in an abandoned building, where, absent the fire, it might never have been discovered. The same Jack the Ripper madman who had killed the other girls?

  The young Chinese woman had died on the docks just a couple blocks from the warehouse where they found Jessie. The incidents had to be related. Surely Lizzette and the Chinese woman had been killed by the same person—someone who strangled first and then cut off a lock of hair as a keepsake. If the coroner’s report on Jessie’s body showed a lock of hair missing, that would clinch it.

  But an heiress’s murder is unlikely to be the result of random violence. The first thing to ask is who stands to inherit. Jessie’s death shifted the Carr fortune to Jessie’s cousins. Could the late Uncle Charles, the invalid, have hired someone to kidnap Jessie and kill her so his children would inherit what he had been denied? It was all too preposterous. People didn’t murder children for money.

  And then I remembered Shakespeare’s Richard III.

  There was a fourth possibility. Anticipating their own eventual inheritance, Henry and Ross could have arranged Jessie’s death. But although my close encounters with Henry and Ross at the cliff edge left me in no doubt that they would kill me today if it could be made to look an accident, their killing Jessie seemed unlikely. Henry would have been only seventeen and Ross fifteen—surely too young to actually murder a young girl cousin.