I regret that I was naught but a guardian to you. Mothering died when our child did, so many years before you.
I bid you and this world farewell.
Please remember your promise to me to care for my husband.
With some affection,
Margory Mendelsohn”
Silence filled the room. It was a sad letter, Heidi determined. And, somehow, she related to it as the words drew her into the life of this Dorothea Reed, as though the letter were written to her. Of course, she knew her parentage and roots, yet the feeling of being an afterthought, ostracized by way of not belonging, that was something Heidi knew all too well.
“Thea Reed.” Rhett slid the photograph of the dead woman across the table toward Heidi.
She picked it up and gave him a questioning look.
“She’s the photographer,” he added.
“That’s right!” Connie snapped her fingers.
Heidi lifted the picture. “Yes. That’s where I’ve heard the name before.”
“The trunk had T. Reed etched into the leather handle on its far side. Everything in it must belong to this Thea girl. That photo album musta been part of her belongings then.” Murphy sat up and leaned on the table. “Makes sense. It was right next to the trunk at the sale. Fact, I think we bought them all together. The trunk and the album.”
“Who was Dorothea—Thea Reed then?” Heidi ventured.
Emma broke into the conversation as she folded the letter back to its original form. “Dorothea Reed was the photographer apprentice who worked alongside Mr. Amos, the owner of Amos Brothers Photography, a portrait studio in Pleasant Valley. He suffered an attack of the heart in May of 1908, and Dorothea Reed and a Mr. Simeon Coyle assisted in retrieving medical attention for him.”
They all stared at Emma.
She blinked back at them as if reciting historical facts was everyone’s best talent. “It was in that paper,” she said, pointing to the vintage paper she’d left behind in the corner.
Murphy chuckled. “You do beat all, baby girl.”
“Who is Simeon Coyle?” Connie asked Emma, as if somehow the girl would instinctively know.
And apparently she did.
“Simeon Coyle was descended from Reginald Kramer, founder of Kramer Logging. His grandmother Mathilda married Fergus Coyle, and Reginald Kramer disowned all her line afterward. His nephew, Edward Fortune, inherited the logging company, which is why today there are no Kramers there. Only Fortunes.”
“Fortunes who have a fortune!” Murphy groused and took a sip of his coffee.
“I still don’t see how any of this explains the woman in the picture who looks like me.” Heidi’s head was spinning.
Emma slipped the letter back into the envelope. “Maybe because you’re a Coyle.”
A dust particle landing on the tabletop could have been heard in the silence that followed.
Emma, oblivious, set the envelope back in the cigar box and replaced its lid. She returned her attention to them. “There’s a sketch of Mary Coyle in one of the newspaper clippings from the trunk. Her obituary. It’s the same woman as in your picture. She looks like you.”
It was all so obvious to Emma.
Heidi frowned. Her eyes swept up to meet Rhett’s, even as Connie lunged for one of the newspaper clippings Emma had been browsing earlier.
“But,” Heidi protested, “we’re not from around here. My family has no history in Pleasant Valley.”
“Are you sure?” Rhett’s eyes drilled into hers.
“I—” Heidi stopped. Of course she was. She’d been raised in a church in Minnesota. Her father was born and raised in Nebraska. He met her mother at college. Mom was from Wisconsin, only she said she’d been raised in Madison, which was several hours south of here.
Still. Heidi fingered the handle of her teacup. “If I were related to the Coyles . . .” She let her words trail as her hypothesis took her places she wasn’t sure she wanted to go.
“Then Misty Wayfair will come for you,” Emma finished. “Like the curse says she will.”
“Legend has it Misty Wayfair was as ill as the residents in that asylum,” Murphy offered.
Connie laid her hand over her husband’s. “Murph.” Her voice held concern, and a quick glance was sent Heidi’s way.
“It’s all right, really.” Heidi nodded. “I’m not a Coyle. We’ve no connection to Pleasant Valley at all.”
But her eyes locked with those of the dead woman, Mary Coyle, in the photograph. Painted-on eyes or not, Mary’s vapid expression told a different story. And yet it hadn’t been Misty whom Heidi had seen in her bedroom window. It was Mary.
Even a fragment of the idea sent a shiver through Heidi. What were the odds there were two haunting spirits roaming the woods of Pleasant Valley? Both connected by a curse that seemed as though directed straight back to Heidi herself.
Chapter 23
Thea
Everything about the previous day was unsettling. She couldn’t get Effie’s poem recitation out of her mind, nor could she stop second-guessing the offer to sort through the old asylum records. As much as her spirit yearned to flee the asylum forever, it was as if an unseen hand held on to the hem of her dress and pulled her back. Making her stay. Like Thea recalled wishing she could do as a little girl when her mother’s feet had carried her down the walkway and out of Thea’s life.
During the night, Thea had wandered with restless unease to the window and peered down over the silent street. There was no woman dancing through the fog. No ghosts or visions or spirits. The dead had remained dead last night, even though Thea could hear Mr. Mendelsohn’s troublesome voice deep in her mind.
“A wandering spirit is nothing to bandy about as nonsense.”
The old photographer, with his skinny hands, would drum his fingers on the top of the table and stare across it at Thea. She’d never, in the years spent with him, grown accustomed to the cold superstitions that rested in his eyes.
“A gentleman whose son I photographed after a specific bout with the measles wrote to me later inquiring as to whether I’d seen his son’s spirit in the photograph. Indeed, I had. Floating just up and to the right of his actual dead form. Of course, I denied it, for who was I to encourage the wanderings into the afterlife of a very healthy man? Still, a month later, his wife returned the photograph of the dead child to me. Her husband had taken his life one night after claiming he’d been stoking the fire and had turned around to see his son rise suddenly from a prostrate position on the couch—as if from inside a coffin.”
Thea recalled his stories, spoken with such conviction that she too half believed them to be true. Half believed that Mr. Mendelsohn’s teachings of the afterlife were as logical as the instructions of how to work his camera. But now? Mrs. Amos had indicated her faith in a Creator, with a vested interest in them—in Thea—and that idea was much more welcoming. It would change the concept of the afterlife too. For wouldn’t a Creator have a plan for the dead beyond just allowing their souls to wander aimlessly? That belief made Heaven seem possible, life seem purposeful, and the darkness lift, even if just a little bit, to allow light in.
Now, Thea buttoned her skirt at the side of her waist, inspecting herself and her dress in the mirror. Satisfied, she pinned a simple velvet hat to her hair and snatched her reticule from the desk. When she opened the door, she gasped as Mr. Fritz, the other boardinghouse guest, stood with his hand poised to knock. He blustered and wiped his hand over his mouth as he collected his wits. He seemed as surprised as she was.
“My apologies, Miss Reed. I didn’t mean to intrude.”
Thea eyed him as she drew her door shut behind her. “Yes?”
Mr. Fritz shifted his weight and tugged on his coat, regaining his proper confidence. “I was meaning to inquire—about the topic of conversation the other morning. I was hoping you might help me understand a bit more of the story surrounding Kramer Logging and this family, the Coyles.”
Thea narrowed her eyes and
took a few steps toward the stairwell that would take her to the front entrance of the boardinghouse. The idea of escaping to Mr. Amos’s studio was growing in its appeal. Not to mention, she wanted to visit him now that Mrs. Amos had sent her last message, with the doctor saying he was “out of the woods.”
Mr. Fritz followed her.
Thea lifted her skirts as she descended the stairs. She answered him over her shoulder. “I don’t believe I will be of much assistance, being new to Pleasant Valley myself.”
And quite unnerved by it all, she might have added. But she didn’t.
She paused at the bottom and turned, leveling a censorious eye on the man. “Why do you wish to know?”
Mr. Fritz offered a small smile. The kind that tried to imply he posed no danger and insinuated he wasn’t nosy—like Mrs. Brummel. He twisted his bowler hat in his hands. “I’ll be frank with you.”
“Please do,” Thea encouraged, her eyes narrowing as she attempted to read beyond Mr. Fritz’s platonic smile into the depths behind his rather normal brown eyes.
“Have you ever heard of Nellie Bly?” he asked.
Thea blinked. “I have not.”
“No.” Mr. Fritz shook his head. “No, I don’t suppose you have. Regardless, I’d like to speak with you further about your impressions of this community. Being new and all. Mrs. Brummel has implied that you’ve become rather—close—to Simeon Coyle. I know they are distantly related to the Fortunes, who own the logging company, who in turn are related to Reginald Kramer, the founder of Valley Heights Asylum.”
Thea watched him pause, seem to collect his thoughts in the same cadence as he collected his breath. She glanced beyond them, toward the main lounge of the boardinghouse. It wouldn’t surprise her if she were to see Mrs. Brummel’s shadow stretched across the floor. Eavesdropping. Collecting hearsay that she could then twist and cajole into interesting stories for the rest of her boarders and town friends.
Mr. Fritz continued. “Nellie Bly is a journalist from New York. About twenty years ago, she committed herself into an asylum with the purpose of bringing to light the—ah—travesties of treatment, so one might put it, that the patients were subjected to.”
Thea had no idea where this was going, but a restlessness inside her made her edge her way toward the door. Toward escape. But Mr. Fritz followed like a horsefly on a hot, muggy day.
Once on the sidewalk, Thea turned to him. “Mr. Fritz, I’m sure I’m not following why you’ve an interest in my opinions—which are merely that. Opinion. I daresay, you would be wise to leave it all alone.”
She didn’t know why she’d added the warning at the end. Whether to mimic Mrs. Brummel’s insistence that indeed an accursed spirit of a murdered woman would haunt him, or more likely because something within her wished to protect Rose—to protect Simeon. Her heart warmed. She blushed. Wishing she hadn’t.
Mr. Fritz noticed, his expression growing shrewd.
“I’m a newspaperman. I’m from Milwaukee and, considering Miss Bly’s exposé, I’m not the first to be inspired to investigate the well-being of the patients at asylums such as Valley Heights. Yet here I find there is a much deeper story, or so it seems.”
Thea wished she were brave enough to be rude, to turn on her heel and walk away. Yet, something held her. Mr. Fritz was as hypnotized by the mysteries of this town and its generational conditions as she was.
Mr. Fritz lowered his voice, glancing all directions before speaking again. “Mrs. Brummel stated you were assisting Mr. Coyle in photographing the patients at the hospital. You have gained access to a very private institution. To areas of the hospital a mere visitor is not allowed to go. I was wondering if I could hire you to . . .” He paused, reading her face as if to determine whether she was even a tiny bit open to listening. What he saw must have encouraged him, for he cleared his throat and continued, “I would like to hire you to report to me the conditions of the patients. Their treatment. The staff’s methods of helping during patient distresses.”
“You wish for me to spy?” Thea was incredulous. The very idea of nosing around the hospital for the purpose of solving whether her own mother had been a patient there already had her in great turmoil. Reporting back to a newspaperman seemed unconscionable. Especially if it implicated Simeon and Rose in the process. By means of simply being the grandchildren—the disowned grandchildren—of Reginald Kramer.
“I wish for you to help me gather the information needed to give Valley Heights a positive report. Mental asylums are not particularly in good standing with most people. Communities are becoming suspicious of abuse and the mishandling of patients. Still, we know these places of care are necessary for certain individuals.”
“Abuse? Mishandling?” Thea echoed.
“Yes.” Mr. Fritz extended his elbow to silently communicate he would escort her to wherever she was headed. Thea tucked her hand in its crook for no other reason than she was uncomfortable discussing it in the middle of the boardwalk on Pleasant Valley’s main street.
She started toward the portrait studio. Mr. Fritz fell into place beside her.
“It’s a delicate subject, really, Miss Reed. And you should know . . . some of it might challenge your sensibilities.”
Thea gave him a sideways glance that probably was more of a sneer. “I take photographs of corpses, Mr. Fritz. If my sensibilities were any more hardened, I’d exhume their bodies and practice surgical science on them. So, please, do continue.”
He had the gallantry to blanch at her boldness. At her mention of the activity of dissecting cadavers to practice medical skills.
“Well then. Aside from rough-handling and the like, some hospitals have taken to . . .” He sidestepped horse droppings as they crossed the road to the other side. They hurried in front of a logger’s wagon that was clambering toward them, the massive horses in front, the logger perched high on his seat. Riding along in the wagon bed sat a few more loggers. All of the men were covered in flannel and denim, on their way to Kramer Logging for a day’s work.
Once they reached the other side of the road, Mr. Fritz went on with what he was saying. “Sterilization,” he said in a rush.
Thea stopped on the sidewalk. “Pardon?”
Mr. Fritz shifted his feet. “Some doctors have subscribed to the practice of sterilizing their patients to avoid any reproduction of the genetic abnormalities.”
Thea’s heart pounded, and her breaths quickened. But she quickly composed herself. It had never occurred to her that a hospital committed to caring for those with troubled minds would resort to such inhumane care. Let alone . . . her imagination went wild. What exactly was sterilization anyway? She had no desire to ask Mr. Fritz to expound on it.
“Is that all?” she demanded.
Mr. Fritz ran his fingers over the brim of his hat, which he’d set on his head when they’d begun their walk. “No. There are other atrocities. I’m doubtful with a hospital as small as Valley Heights that they’d be applying experimental treatments to the patients’ brains; however, in larger hospitals, this is a somewhat frequent practice. Accepted as well. But I find it—”
“Appalling.” Thea’s response was slightly louder than a whisper. She glanced toward the door of the portrait studio that they now stood facing. While she couldn’t see through the door or through the walls to the river beyond, her mind could conjure the imagery there. The forest, the serene brick hospital set a ways off in the darkness, alone. And the small graveyard . . .
Mr. Fritz’s declarations brought an entirely different story to her mind. A troubling one. One of a mother struggling, leaving her daughter behind, entering a facility claiming to be devoted to her care, and then . . . experimentation.
If indeed what Mr. Fritz said was true, where did Valley Heights fall on the scale of good and bad? Were Rose and Simeon aware of any mistreatment? Had Simeon buried the evidence of abuse under the silent covering of the woods?
“Yes.” Thea heard the word escape her mouth before she could ponder furt
her. Mr. Fritz’s gaze flew to meet hers.
“You will assist me, then?”
Thea nodded, though her stomach felt sick at the idea. “Yes, but if—if there’s anything untoward happening there . . .” She hesitated. But, no. It was a tale that must be told, if there was any truth to it. “Then I will tell you.”
Mr. Fritz’s mouth thinned into a smile that wasn’t victorious or elated. More resigned. “Thank you, Miss Reed. My hopes are that you will indeed find nothing amiss.”
“I have one condition,” Thea added.
Mr. Fritz raised his brows. “Condition?”
“If you uncover more of the story of the Coyles—of Misty Wayfair, of Kramer Logging—you will tell me first.”
Mr. Fritz cocked his head, suspicious. “Why? What interests you so about the Coyles?”
Thea’s chest tightened. With emotion, perhaps, or trepidation. Or both. “I sense that both Simeon and his sister, Rose, are merely pawns in a line of unfortunate events. They are both employed at the hospital, and if something were to be exposed there, and more was brought to light of their family history, I feel it only a kindness to know of it and to—”
“To protect them?” Mr. Fritz supplied.
Perhaps, yes, that was what she was hoping. Thea nodded.
The newspaperman eyed her for a moment, then gave a short nod. “Very well. However, I’m still uncertain as to why you have such a vested and loyal interest in them. They’re of no consequence to you.”
No consequence.
He was right.
But even though Simeon wasn’t beside her, Thea could feel the depths of Simeon’s shadowy eyes on her. The way his very frame drew her to him. As if, somehow, and for some reason, they were bound together, and they just didn’t know why.
After a day at the studio, Thea determined to visit Mr. Amos. He would be pleased—she hoped—that she’d successfully completed a sitting with Mr. Fortune. The man had returned, quite wary, and with an air of being offended Mr. Amos had dared to have a heart attack. Even so, Mr. Fortune settled, and Thea had finally taken a photograph.
The Curse of Misty Wayfair Page 21