“She may be back again. If she does return, Emily, Mr. O’Malley will make sure you have a way to contact him. You should have him with you if you talk to the police. I can’t emphasize how important that is. Promise me you will not talk to the police without him.”
“Promise,” Emily mumbled, and Grace could tell she was worn out.
“You’re tired, and I think I’d better go, Emily, but I’ll be back. Don’t worry about anything. Get some rest,” Grace said.
Emily’s eyes were already closed, and Grace began to button her coat and find her scarf as she and Will walked quietly out into the corridor.
“Thank you, Grace, for coming over today. Darlene and I have been so worried about her. I know she’s still in shock and the doctor will keep her quiet, but we have no way to tell what she will remember once the drugs begin to wear off. We’ll try to keep an eye on her. And I’ll take you up on your housecleaning offer. Thank you. You’re a kind woman.”
“Emily was always one of my favorites, Will.”
His face took on a darker look, and he added, “I think she’s in serious trouble. I know my brother wasn’t a saint, and he learned how to be a bully from the best—our dad—but I didn’t realize it had gone this far. I truly had no idea. I think the police have Emily on their radar as the killer. I can’t imagine she could have killed Conrad. It—it just doesn’t make any sense. Conrad was my brother, and I’m horrified he’s dead, especially in this way. God knows we had our differences. But I will try to protect Emily, and I’ve hired her good legal counsel in case the worst happens.”
Grace was too startled at his personal comments to even think about what to say.
With that, he turned, and they both walked down the hallway a few paces apart, thinking their own separate thoughts.
By Monday night Grace had spent much of the weekend going over her notes about the Lockwoods and reading parts of Sam Oliver’s book about them. She was still thinking about her visit with Emily Folger and her shock at the change in her former student. She carried a warm cup of tea upstairs, and settled in her bed with the electric blanket dial set to a toasty number. “All right, Olivia Havelock. Let’s see what you have found out about the huge town of Endurance.” She put on her gloves and pulled the diary out, opening it to the next entry. Soon she was engrossed in the young girl’s thoughts.
June & July, 1893
Aunt Maud must think me a country bumpkin since she has ordered my dresses and begun teaching me about rules ladies must know. She showed me Godey’s Lady’s Book, which had fashion plates so I could see the look of my new dresses. Aunt Maud says “The Gibson Girl,” created by a Mr. Charles Gibson, is how everyone wants to dress. The shirtwaist dresses have “leg-of-mutton” sleeves. What a funny name. If only the sheep on our farm knew.
Everything I must wear fits so tightly I can hardly breathe. Even the long sleeves fit closely at my wrists. I also have a corset and a bustle. None of these is comfortable, and I am not sure how I will breathe in the corset, let alone get it off and on. It feels like I am in a whalebone prison, one necessitated by my parents’ wishes I become a lady. Wait, that is not fair. If I were honest, I would admit I, too, want to be a lady. But this seems a severe price to pay.
I met a boy. I met a boy. I met a boy.
My head is spinning, and I dance around my room. He is a law student named Tyler Quinn, and he is twenty-three years old. His looks are handsome and robust, and he has blond hair and a tiny moustache. I noticed his divine smile first, and his eyes are the deepest blue. My face is flushed just writing this. “Mrs. Tyler Quinn. Mrs. Olivia Quinn.”
Mr. Quinn was at the church social, where we were introduced by two of my new girlfriends, who know him because they have all lived here their whole lives. At first, our conversation was filled with long pauses. But once we walked over to the band concert, he talked about himself, the town, and his mentor, Simon Barclay, an attorney. He asked me about my life before Endurance, and it was so easy to talk to him. Our hands barely grazed each other once, and I felt a shock of warmth. I had to take my fan out of my reticule, and help the redness go out of my face and my breathing slow down.
I saw Mr. Quinn again at the Fourth of July picnic and band concert. Aunt Maud packed a picnic basket early, and we walked to the park. The entire town attended, and we enjoyed games, bicycle rides, and a band concert filled with patriotic music. My favorites were “The Battle Hymn of the Republic,” “When Johnny Comes Marching Home,” and “Yankee Doodle.” I both smiled and was sad because Father used to whistle “Yankee Doodle” when he worked. Mayor Paul Andersen gave a speech about the town, and the hardy Scotch Presbyterians who settled here on the edge of the wilderness and began Endurance College.
Mr. Quinn was also at the picnic, having been released from his work for the holiday. We walked over by a small pond—still within sight of everyone as Aunt Maud prescribes—and sat on a bench, well away from each other. We have agreed we will call each other “Tyler” and “Olivia” when we are not in company. I feel so relieved—this is more like Anthem.
The balloon ascension was the highlight of the day. I want to do that someday, float through the sky, up near the clouds and heaven. Once the balloon had taken off, I turned to see a man talking with Aunt Maud. She signaled for Mr. Quinn and me to come over and introduced me to him. His name is Judge Charles Lockwood, and I realized I had seen him at a distance during the day. He is old—I believe he must be at least forty. I later found out he owns a huge mansion on Grove Street, and he told Aunt Maud he would send his card around. He glanced at me, smiled and bowed, and then left. He has very polite manners.
On our way home, my friends and I walked past the reading room and library, and I resolved to make a trip there to find books to read. We also passed the Endurance Register office, the local newspaper’s place of business. It has a plaque on the door, which says it was founded in 1852. I touched the numbers for luck.
Oh, thought Grace. I must remember to touch those numbers at the Register office. It will be just like connecting with Olivia. Then she went back to the journal.
Tyler stayed briefly at Aunt Maud’s house, sitting on the porch swing with me. Decorum dictated fifteen minutes for a visit, and Aunt Maud watched the time closely. I like him more and more. He is not like one of my brothers, but then he is. It is easy for me to talk to him about my thoughts, like my brother William. He asks me opinions about topics, and that reminds me I must go to the library. He seems interested in what I think. This is counter to Aunt Maud’s prohibitions that I must listen and not sound too smart or educated. Mr. Quinn works very hard so he may someday have his own law practice. Only once did a dark look pass over his face: when I mentioned Judge Lockwood said he would leave a calling card. I could tell this news was unsettling to Tyler, but he did not say so.
Grace closed the diary and smiled. Here was a young girl falling for a man whose touch electrifies her. Over a century ago. The old ritual of love and courtship are the same, no matter what the time or place. Deep inside she felt a stirring as she remembered her first date with her husband, Roger. He had come to her campus in Indiana as a guest lecturer, and she was assigned to escort him around the campus. She could think about him now and smile at the good memories. She felt the same warmth as Olivia did when she described Tyler Quinn.
But, of course, Olivia won’t end up with him, Grace thought.I wonder how this will play out—Tyler Quinn and Judge Lockwood. I know which one she marries, but I wonder why. Grace’s eyes were getting drowsy and she thought about Jeff and his blue eyes. Turning out the lights, her last thoughts were, And which one will I dream about—Roger or Jeff? She fell asleep still smiling.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Grace lifted her head from the collection of newspaper articles she had been reading and rubbed her eyes. She heard a familiar voice.
“Hey, Grace, I’m just coming on shift. What’s the latest on the Folger murder?” It was Grace’s friend, Deb O’Hara. Deb flung off h
er coat and hung it up on a hanger. This was followed by two scarves, a knitted hat, mittens, and boots. Sitting down, she pulled a pair of dry shoes from her bag.
“Hi.” Grace stood up and stretched her legs. “I stopped to see Emily at the hospital yesterday. I feel so sorry for her and those two little kids. This is crazy. I saw Conrad just last week. We hardly have a murder in thirty years, and then between last summer and now, we are stacking up bodies. This can’t be happening again. And Conrad Folger? Why would someone kill him?”
“Well . . .” Deb said, “I don’t think this has anything to do with last summer. But the gossip is already flying around town. People have him shot, hanged, and knifed to death. Oh, and their money seems to be on Emily Folger, the wife you just visited.”
Grace’s eyes narrowed, and her voice trembled. “What? I can’t believe it. Emily would never do something like that. She couldn’t kill anyone.”
“Word has it he’s been abusing her—physically—and she just had enough of it. Hard to believe.”
Grace paused for a moment, thinking about Emily. “I think the abuse idea may be true after seeing Emily. But someone in Conrad Folger’s position? People like that—powerful people with lots of money—they don’t do those kinds of things. If they’re unhappy, they just divorce.”
“Not Conrad Folger. He’d never divorce anyone and have people in town talk about him. And Emily. She seems like such a little mouse; I can’t believe she’d divorce him, let alone kill him. You never know, Grace, what goes on behind closed doors. Ask TJ. I’ll bet she’s seen stuff she never tells us.”
Grace sat down and motioned Deb to take a closer chair. “I imagine this means long hours for TJ. She got more than she bargained for when she came back here and became a policewoman. Moving up to detective has kept her busy, especially with these homicides.”
“Don’t worry, Grace. She’ll manage. She’s tough—has to be. She’ll figure this one out too.”
“I know you’re right,” Grace said quietly. Then she remembered her research. “I’ve found out a great deal about Jeff’s house, but now I’m starting on the social life of the Lockwoods. Between the Register and Sam Oliver’s book, I’m learning how stifling life was for women back then.”
Deb smiled and rubbed her hands. “That should be exciting. First wife or second?”
“The second for now. I just talked to Sam and he hinted—well, more than hinted—that Judge Lockwood was an abuser, like Conrad Folger.”
Deb looked up from her desk and said, “Really?” She paused and turned back around toward Grace. “How strange that both of those men were powerful and connected with the town in so many philanthropic ways, yet violence is also in their stories.”
Deb turned around to start working again and then had second thoughts. “I think that woman is in deep trouble. She’s undoubtedly their number one suspect.”
“TJ will get it straightened out. I’m sure. I’m pulling for Emily.”
“So,” Deb said, “what have you found out about Lockwood’s second wife? I forget her name.”
“Olivia Havelock. From this 1893 article, it appears she was inducted into the Endurance Garden Club. Back then you had to have a sponsor to be invited. Looks like they made bandages for the hospital and supported the missionary work of the children of the Reverend and Mrs. Josiah Andrews.”
“That would be kind of like the 1950s in middle-class America. Even then people had clubs with secret handshakes and all the silliness. I remember my mom talking about it. Only in the 1890s, it was more the upper crust evidently.”
Grace smiled. “Different times—same silliness and exclusivity.”
“So what else did the bigwigs do socially?”
“Well, the esteemed judge and his wife invited couples in for their Christmas Open House. Here’s a quote for you: ‘Built for the judge by the renowned architect Ainsley Lorenzo Stierwalt, Lockwood House is a premier home on East Grove Street in one of the most desirable residential sections of Endurance.’ How’s that? Now we know Jeff will be in the upper-class, desirable neighborhood.”
“Well, la-de-dah. I hope he still speaks to little me.” Deb paused a minute, remembering the coffee she just had time to grab on her way out the door. Her stomach was rumbling. “Does it say what they had to eat at this open house?”
“Of course, Deb. It’s the society page. Let’s see. ‘A repast of roast beef and ham with various sauces; turnips, parsnips, and potatoes; and hot breads soaked in butter.’ They obviously didn’t know about cholesterol.”
“Dessert. It’s the most important part. Surely they had dessert.”
“Oh, yes. ‘Dessert pastries, including taffy, fudge, peanut brittle and pralines, cherry pies, and plum pudding.’ ”
Deb sighed. “How did they weigh less than three hundred pounds? That does sound yummy.” She felt her stomach rumble again.
“Sorry, Deb. You’d have a corset on and you could just nibble at the edges.”
Deb threw her hands up in the air. “Thank God for the twenty-first century.”
Grace laughed. “So true.” She looked at her watch. “Got to get back to work.”
“Me too.”
Grace pulled out her notebook and checked on the box of microfilm for the latter part of 1893. Then she settled in to adding rolls of film to the monitor and trying not to get motion sickness. She began scanning the social pages and the photos of Olivia Lockwood.
As time flew by, she realized some very hard truths. She looked at the photographs on the social pages and remembered Sam’s words about domestic abuse. As she studied them she thought, These are amazing articles chronicling the decline of Olivia Lockwood. Each story has a photograph taken at the time of the social event. While the photos are gray and grainy, it’s easy to see in November Olivia has lost quite a bit of weight since her honeymoon at the end of September. That’s only about eight weeks. And, if I enlarge the photos, her weight loss is even more pronounced. Sam Oliver may be on the right track when he says the judge was another Conrad Folger. Hard to know without documentation. And at Christmas time, Olivia is decidedly thinner, and she has dark circles under her eyes. Her face appears more pale and sallow, as far as I can tell from the grainy photos. Her mother must have been very worried about her. They leave a beautiful, innocent girl on her wedding day, and when they return she looks like this. That poor wife. That poor mother.
After two hours of extensive scanning and writing, Grace pushed her chair back, rubbed her eyes, and looked at her watch. “I don’t know how people look at these machines for so long,” she said to a quiet, working Deb.
“Me either. Can you still see?”
“Just barely. My eyes always get so tired, but I’ll be fine. Found some good stuff.”
“Oh?” Deb said. She wheeled around in her chair and asked, “What was the most interesting tidbit of information?”
“Short engagements.”
“What do you mean?”
“Back then the wedding was sealed up and delivered very quickly. The idea was if couples had a long engagement, they might get to know each other and decide a wedding wasn’t in their futures.”
“That is hilarious. And nowadays we tell our children to date for a long time so they’ll find out if they want to stick it out. You know the old saying from Ben Franklin—‘Marry in haste, Repent at leisure’? So, did you find anything?”
“Yes. Found the engagement, wedding, and honeymoon information on Olivia Havelock Lockwood. She looks so young and so joyous, as if she has her whole life ahead of her. Of course, she did at that point, I guess. But I can see a steady downhill progression after the marriage. Her whole physical being is shrinking and fading into oblivion. What did he do to her? It’s only after his—the judge’s—death that Sam Oliver lost any trace of her. Obviously, the judge didn’t kill her because she outlived him. I am going to figure out this one if it kills me.”
“Don’t say that. The last time you tried to become a sleuth, you almost d
id get killed.”
“That was different.”
Deb gave her a skeptical look.
Just then, Laura Downey came in to borrow a yearbook because she was on a committee to organize a class reunion the next summer. Grace spoke to her, asking where her younger sister was. Another one I remember. Laura had brought her baby sister, Lucy, into my class to do a demonstration on how to feed a baby. After three bites, Lucy threw up all over the carpet. That was the year I put in a new rule that students couldn’t bring in anything live to demonstrate. It was a perfect rule that eliminated dogs, cats, alligators, snakes, and baby sisters.
After Laura left, Grace began packing up her research.
“I’ll be careful, Deb. Right now, though, I need to go back home and check that Lettie hasn’t bashed anyone over the head.”
“Oh. You mean Del Novak.”
“I do. I’m not sure my homeowner’s insurance would cover death by frying pan.”
Grace began putting on her layers of winter clothes and gathering up all her research. “Hope all goes well, and I’ll be back—well, tomorrow’s Wednesday—see you, maybe.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
When Grace reached Sweetbriar Court, she could see that TJ’s garage door was closed, and the lights were out in the house. The lights were on at Grace’s, so Lettie was there. No Del Novak truck, however. She breathed a sigh of relief she wouldn’t have to deal with Lettie and Del together this afternoon. Hurrying into the house from the garage, she set her bag full of research and her laptop down on the table in the front hallway. “Lettie, I’m home. Whatever you’re cooking, it smells great.”
“Applesauce.”
Yum, thought Grace. After taking off her winter gear, she went to the kitchen and saw Lettie at a makeshift table reading the Endurance Register. The sweet, fragrant smell of applesauce drifted from a simmering pot on the stove.
Lettie looked up. “Lots of rumors around town about Conrad Folger.”
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