Too full of energy yet to sleep, she pulled over the pile of papers Mrs. Thatcher had given her, continuing where Emma had left off. Mostly she came across sheets of supplies, inventory, business letters, and more mundane papers.
Ready to stop, she yawned and turned over a few more pages when one of the letters in the pile caught her eye. In elegant and tasteful lettering, the top of the letter advertised Borden and Almy, specialists in Crane’s Patented Casket Burial Cases, the business Father had operated with his former partner. The page contained a list of items ordered from a mortuary company, including cotton, gloves and a few tools, along with three-inch tall bottles, paper labels, and cement.
The list had her wondering, especially since she’d only known about Father selling the caskets, not the individual supplies. Nor had he done much in the undertaking end in recent years. Maybe he’d branched out into another auxiliary business. Why else would he need such items? Not that she seemed to know anything of what her father had been doing, of course.
The next letter made her even more curious. Typewritten on plain linen paper, the letter to Davis and Hatch Spice Company in neighboring New Bedford included an order for ordinary ground spices like cinnamon and cloves, but the quantity made her take another look. Not twenty pounds, as she’d first thought, but—wait. Two hundred pounds? Why so much?
Cloves had a pleasant odor, she knew. Cinnamon, of course, also made a nice pomander. Both of them worked well perhaps for freshening the room the caskets sat in? Though she had no experience in such matters, she guessed it could help sales to ensure the room had no foul odors that could distract customers from their purchases. Otherwise, she had no idea how that fit into Father’s business needs.
Lizzie yawned and stood to gather up the papers when she noticed the handwritten note on the bottom of the last page in the pile. The letter proved uninteresting. The note, however, had her mind searching for a plausible explanation.
In a firm, sprawling, and partly illegible hand, someone had added the question—Ask price, gr—nd st—n—s. Deliver? The center words had been written so fast the letters looked like a bunch of scribbles, not readable except by the writer. A dull throb in her forehead told her she’d already spent enough hours reading. Time to get away from this and rest her eyes. She gazed once more at the words, still unclear on the meaning. She decided to ask Emma to take a look once she woke. Maybe her sister could offer a fresh perspective, or do a better job at deciphering this than she had.
Rubbing her head again, she sighed and set the papers aside. At least she had no question about the identity of the note writer. The two initials couldn’t be clearer: A.B. had to mean Andrew Borden, of course.
Father’s secrets remained just that, but as Lizzie kept digging, with each little piece uncovered she knew the light would soon fall on all his dealings. How it would affect her she didn’t yet know. She’d had a difficult relationship with her father, a man who’d been overbearing at times, overly thrifty, and even stingy. But they had been closer once, as well, evidenced by the gold ring she’d given him years ago. It had remained on his finger until death.
If anything disturbing were found Lizzie guessed Emma would take it much harder than her. If at all possible, she vowed to soften the blow for her sister. That was one more thing she had to be diligent about.
Given the aftermath of the trial, plus the big changes in their lives, Lizzie still felt she owed Emma more than she had done. Through it all, Emma had stood by her. Her sister may be older, but Lizzie felt responsible for her, and to her.
With a sigh, Lizzie went up to bed. She hoped to catch at least a couple hours’ rest despite her inner turmoil. Her heart felt heavy while her mind spun with more questions than answers.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Q. Did you know that there was found… a hatchet and axe?
A. No, sir, I did not.
Q. Can you give any occasion for there being blood on them?
A. No, sir.
—Lizzie Borden at inquest, August 9-11 1892
A
clatter of cups and kitchenware greeted Lizzie as she wandered into the kitchen the next morning and found Emma setting the table for breakfast. Her sister looked up and promptly dropped the floral china plate in her hand onto the floor, where it broke into several pieces.
“Oh, Emma, I’m so sorry. Did I startle you?”
“No.” Emma tried to grab another plate, instead pushing a cup off the table edge. It, too, fell and broke with a crash.
“Emma, take it easy. Are you all right?”
She sighed. “Yes, no, I’m just a bit jumpy yet, I think.”
“Please, take a minute. Now, breathe deep. Yes, again. There, better?”
Her sister nodded. “Yes, a little. I made Eggs Benedict. Oh, and what would Father want with grinding stones, of all things? Pour the tea, would you?”
The tea cup trembled in Lizzie’s hand. She set it down before it, too, dropped and shattered. Her plan had been to tell Emma after breakfast about her findings. She’d wanted to ask Emma about the letter, or if she could decipher it, but it looked like the question was unnecessary.
“Wh-what? How did you know about that?”
Emma nodded at the letter and handwritten note on the table as she dished out the breakfast. “I saw that on the table where you left it. Those stones are massive. I have no clue what Father was making that he needed to buy such a thing, and order all those spices, too. It seems odd.”
“It certainly is. I was going to ask what you thought. I couldn’t make out those words for anything, what with the terrible writing. But I was pretty tired, too.”
“Like with everything else, I suppose we’ll know the answer soon enough.” She tucked into her breakfast and urged Lizzie to do the same. “Eat while it’s hot. We won’t get any answers right away anyway.”
“Right you are on that.”
As they finished their meal, the thought of spending many more months ferreting out Father’s secrets, and fighting off the undead creatures still shuffling around outside, weighed heavily on Lizzie. At least her fears of Emma never speaking to her again hadn’t materialized. Happiness filled her at seeing her sister in good spirits. Best of all, she appeared healthy and unharmed, which gave Lizzie a most unexpected idea.
“I just had an interesting thought. What would you say about us having a party?”
“A party?”
“Yes, you know, have a few friends over for dinner and music. Enjoy a nice social evening here. We haven’t invited anyone over since we moved. I think we both could use a night off. We deserve some relaxation.”
Emma turned to the window and looked out. “I would think we have enough going on to keep us occupied.”
She knew what Emma meant, of course, but the idea grew on her. Lizzie decided she couldn’t take no for an answer. “Yes, but this is for only one night. I can invite our friends from the Society, the ulterior motive being they can keep an eye out for our uninvited, unwelcome, guests.”
Emma answered with about the same enthusiasm Lizzie expected she’d get if she asked her sister to go fight monsters in the dark. At least Emma didn’t totally pooh-pooh the suggestion.
“I suppose,” Emma said. “Are you sure it’s a good idea?”
“Positive. What can really go wrong?”
Lizzie felt uneasy as soon as the words left her lips, but decided she was just letting Emma get to her. “Our Society friends will be here on patrol. I would think Pierre would attend.”
Emma only nodded and sipped her tea.
Her sister’s lack of enthusiasm didn’t dampen Lizzie’s excitement. She thought maybe John and Mr. Jennings would come by, though she wasn’t sure if that was a good idea or not. On second thought, she’d met some quite interesting theater people in recent months. The stage actress, Nance O’Neil, had tried to break the ice and draw her out with an invitation to one of her own shows. Lizzie decided maybe she needed to make new friends.
The
party proved to be a great success, at least in Lizzie’s opinion. Emma remained quiet afterward, but Lizzie credited it to her sister being tired and the change in their schedule, since they’d been up until the wee hours of the morning. The best thing, of course, was there hadn’t been a creature to be found within shuffling or hearing distance of their front door. That, of course, was thanks to the diligence of Society members who’d kept a tight watch on the street. That might have been the best change.
As they sat in the parlor later that afternoon, Lizzie finally decided to broach the subject. “So, you haven’t said much. Did you enjoy the party?”
“It was fine.”
Emma’s tone made Lizzie look up from the magazine she’d been reading. For whatever reason, Emma had been acting strangely. She’d been rather standoffish and quiet most of the day.
Lizzie had worried a little about the mix of people who’d been invited, but it proved fruitless since the guest list had dwindled considerably. It consisted of her, Emma, Pierre, several Society members, and some of her new theater friends. Old friends never bothered to even acknowledge her invitation, which is pretty much what Lizzie expected. John and others on her legal team stopped by to wish her well, but left quickly due to previous engagements, or so they’d claimed.
The real hurt fell on Emma, whom Lizzie felt never deserved being snubbed. Though none of her sister’s friends, or even their cousins, chose to attend, Emma had seemed to take it in stride. Lizzie thought her sister had enjoyed herself. It had been a wonderful night mingling with such creative, fun, and humorous people like the most entertaining Miss O’Neil. The actress proved to be witty, charming, and the life of the party. To Lizzie’s delight, Miss O’Neil invited her and Emma both to accompany a group of friends one weekend to the Columbian Exposition in Chicago. It sounded like a wonderful idea and looked to be a most fascinating event. She so wanted to see, and maybe even take a ride, on that new gigantic wheel built by Mr. Ferris.
Lizzie eyed her sister, wondering what was bothering her. “Emma? Is anything wrong?”
Emma shook her head. “No, not really.”
“What is it then?”
“Nothing.”
“Such a shame that none of your friends or our cousins could attend. They missed out.”
“Never mind, Liz. That’s all right. We did send the invitations on short notice.”
Lizzie nodded, though she suspected that wasn’t the problem. “That’s my fault. I’m sorry I decided on this at the last minute. Maybe we can have just a dinner the next time. It was fun having the theater group here. What do you think?”
Emma raised an eyebrow. “Liz, should we really think of entertaining now with everything that’s going on out there? And I’m not sure you can count much on show people. You know they’re not always reliable.”
Her sister’s comment took Lizzie aback. She knew people in the theater and entertainment world were not considered by many in other social circles to be on the same social level. Not that any of that mattered to her anymore.
“Why, why, Emma,” Lizzie sputtered. “I would say those people proved to be more reliable than our old friends, and even our family. After all, it’s not like people here on the Hill or in the business district want anything to do with us, or, to be truthful, with me, unless they have a cause, or an event to solicit funds for. Am I right?”
Emma’s face turned a deep scarlet.
Regret filled her. Poor thing. I know she feels stuck between her loyalty to me and keeping some semblance of her old life, and trying to form a new one. It must be terribly hard for her.
“I’m sorry, Emma. I didn’t mean to make you feel bad.”
Emma got to her feet, her face emotionless. “I’ll be in my room. I think I’ll pack and leave tomorrow. I want to visit my friends again in Fairhaven. I intend on spending a few days there.”
Her mood darkened as Emma left the room. The awkwardness between them bothered Lizzie. She had hoped the party would have helped draw Emma out. She’d thought it could even provide a way for her sister to get to know Pierre better. She’d been wrong on both counts.
I was too wrapped up in talking with the other guests to see if Emma felt comfortable. She hoped Emma would get back to her old self soon, especially since they still had a lot of information to look into yet.
Looking out the window, she spotted two unwelcome visitors shuffling down the center of the street. Lizzie grunted in frustration, even if she had nothing else to do. Grabbing her weapons bag, she pulled out the small handheld axe and went outside. The monstrous duo quickened their shambling steps once they sensed her waiting at the end of the walkway in front of the house.
As they lunged, she took out her frustrations with each bite of the axe.
WHACK. WHACK. WHACK.
Lizzie’s hope was that she and Emma could somehow make peace with each other, the past, and especially, with what their lives had become.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
News: Following the trial, Fall River Daily Globe reporter Edwin H. Porter shares the “real story” of Lizzie Borden in his new book, The Fall River Tragedy: A History of the Borden Murders.
“E
mma?”
No answer.
Lizzie went downstairs after rising much later than usual and found the house quiet, her sister already departed to the train depot for the visit to her friends. Emma’s sudden departure without saying goodbye filled Lizzie with sadness. She also felt bewildered at this most unexpected turn of events.
Maybe a few days or so apart will be good for both of us, she decided. It would give her time to think and make a game plan. She had a strong feeling, though, that her behavior had probably been the main impetus in Emma’s decision.
She realized too late that her thinking had been totally wrong. Emma was right. She never should’ve thought of parties, or such frivolities, with all the terrible things happening. Given the past year, she’d simply wanted to ignore it all for a while. All she’d wanted was to put everything behind them for one night and have a little fun. No wonder Emma got angry. Her sister felt the mounting pressures and looked at things with a clearer insight. Lizzie knew she sometimes acted like Nero fiddling while Rome burned.
Ever since Emma’s near attack, Lizzie had seen a marked difference in the sheer number of creatures appearing on the streets and roadways. When she went out for her quick daily walk, she found herself passing groups of neighbors who had witnessed the changes, too, and stood nervously talking together about the growing horrors. Many clutched hunting rifles, or had other weapons in hand. They still ignored her, but she overheard some of them making plans to leave.
Already she had seen a number of nearby families rushing to load their possessions and children into carriages for a trip out of town. She saw other families being driven down the road, wagons and carriages packed to the hilt. They weren’t going to the seashore.
Peering out the window, Lizzie watched police officials set up a patrol at the other end of the road closest to the main thoroughfare. This time, she felt no unease at their presence. Of course, their refusal to set up any roadblocks closer to her home only confirmed John’s warnings about the official stance toward her.
She knew the neighbors blamed her for the lack of protection. As a result, she’d seen some of the men patrolling outside their homes on their own. More than once she heard shots and watched them take aim at an approaching creature.
Her heart heavy, she went downstairs to sharpen her knives and axe, and check that all her weapons were ready. She thought of Emma. I hope she doesn’t stay away too long. With each swipe of the blades against the sharpening stone, Lizzie realized she had some decisions to make—whether to let the disagreement go on and wait for Emma to sort it out, or be the one to approach her sister. Then there was Pierre, who hadn’t yet shown anything but a respectful, brotherly interest in Emma. Lizzie suspected he could be the real reason behind Emma’s unexpressed anger, which also left her with a dilemm
a of her own. Do I let him know my feelings toward him have changed?
As she pondered the idea, her mind drifted again to their last kiss, which truth be told, was never far from her thoughts. She’d tried to forget, to push it away, but so far it had proved irresistible—and left her wanting more. The feelings kept coming back with a vengeance, like the yearning for a big, equally forbidden piece of chocolate cake.
The chime of the front doorbell broke Lizzie out of her daydreaming. Brushing back her hair, she went upstairs to answer. Peeking out the window, she was surprised to find none other than John on the doorstep. He looked frazzled as she welcomed him in.
“John, what’re you doing here?”
“Liz, I’m absolutely stunned. Have you seen this?” He thrust a dog-eared copy of The Boston Globe at her.
“No, I’m behind in my reading. Why? What happened?”
Unfolding the paper, she eyed the front page and gasped. There, in giant black letters, stood the headline she’d hoped to never see. DOES LIZZIE BORDEN PLAY A PART IN RECENT ATTACKS?
The story went on to delve again into the other axe murder. It listed several incidents where people had been nearly attacked, had died mysteriously, or simply disappeared. The writer hinted at an influx of “diseased” individuals in the region, but left out the true background and the Society’s involvement, focusing instead on finding a way to get her name in the report.
“This-this is ridiculous,” she stammered, her outrage growing. “This makes no sense at all. All they did was rehash old facts and scramble the rest so they could use my name to sell papers. I may contact Mr. Jennings and have him lodge a complaint. At least they left out any mention of the Society.”
Lizzie Borden, Zombie Hunter Page 18