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.”
“Yes, though the reporter hints about our involvement, and I quote, ‘several people who escaped harm reported certain unidentified individuals taking charge of the attackers.’ Meaning us.” He cleared his throat before continuing. “This whole report leaves us with a dilemma. I’m sorry to say this, I truly am, but it may make it harder for us if you’re involved.”
All she could do was stare at him, his comment catching her totally by surprise. If she’d been thinking ahead as to the real reason behind his visit, maybe she wouldn’t be so shocked. She should’ve guessed he was up to something. She shook her head in disgust, both at him and at herself.
“Is this a formal request for me to stay away from the group? Or is this merely a suggestion?”
He nervously cleared his throat again. “None of us can tell you what to do. If you want to keep on with what you’re doing, neither I nor anyone else can stop you. I just wanted you to know that it may be harder for you to remain unnoticed.”
Her patience at an end, she showed him the door. “This is news? The trial is over, but my sentence continues. From day one, I have been hounded and watched. Nothing has changed in that respect. Absolutely nothing. Thank you for coming by. Let this be your last visit.”
He went out and stood a moment on the doorstep, looking as if he wanted to say more, but thought better of it. Instead, he turned and walked away. She slammed the door, her anger boiling. So be it.
As if to rub salt in her wounds, she stood by the window and watched a couple neighbors shooting at a group of undead creatures shambling around the corner. Several Society members appeared on the scene to help, recognizable by the distinctive new red armbands marked with the initials SAS for Saint Alphonsus Society. Apparently, the need for secrecy no longer applied. As she closed the curtain, Lizzie felt a twinge of envy and disappointment that no one had bothered to offer one to her.
“Huh, well, they can keep their armbands.” She decided to keep on with her own plans and personal patrols. Maybe Emma would be back soon to help, she hoped.
The other bad, or at least unexpected news of the day, came later when someone from the building department telephoned saying her request to put in a new section of fencing would be delayed. It wasn’t earth-shattering news, of course, but another unwelcome annoyance. John had also mentioned that many projects and business dealings seemed to be put off or lost these days, especially when it involved anything or anyone connected to the Society. It made her wonder if in truth, the city— namely some high-ranking official—wasn’t keeping tabs on her and anyone she was even remotely associated with. Maybe that was the real reason for John’s cryptic warning.
Without Emma around, Lizzie felt lost. The house seemed too empty. She dared consider the unthinkable: if Emma decides to not come back home, will I be able to stand it? Could I live totally alone?
Lizzie didn’t think their argument that serious, or was it? Could their estrangement go that far? But she suspected Emma had been more upset than it appeared. Maybe the pressure of living under constant scrutiny, plus having to always watch out for those creatures had finally got to her. Or could it be Emma finally had had enough of me and the whole situation?
Lizzie dreaded having to consider the possibility and wondered—was it all enough to push Emma to move away, or possibly stay in Fairhaven? It seemed impossible, but if Emma did that Lizzie knew there was nothing she could do about it.
The thought soured her mood, making even the tea taste bitter. Loath to sit idle, she set her cup aside and began a renewed search through Father’s papers, hoping to spot anything she might have missed. When nothing new came to light, she shoved the pile aside in frustration. Then it dawned on her. Wait a minute! She mulled over Emma’s comment—the grinding stones. If Father bought them, then where were they? What did he need them for?
Her mind worked. What could be the key to the puzzle fell into place. Lizzie groaned, wondering why none of them had thought of that before! She must be losing her mental faculties. Here they had searched both warehouses, but no one had done the obvious—looked around Father’s pride and joy, the handsome, red brick A. J. Borden building he’d had constructed on Main Street.
Excitement filled her as she found the letter listing the other supplies Father had ordered. Will I find anything there besides caskets? Will I finally learn what Father needed with all those supplies? What about those creatures chained in the warehouse?
She had a hard time containing her anticipation. Gathering up her tools and bag, she double-checked she had everything of use and went to change into a regular, less attention-getting day dress. As much as she enjoyed wearing the more practical, and much more comfortable, bloomers she’d had made, the garment had to be confined to her fighting, or training around the house. She almost decided to forgo convention totally and wear it when she went shopping, but she still didn’t relish bringing more attention to herself if she could help it.
That left one other problem: finding someone to chauffeur her. With John no longer available, and considering his latest comments, she felt uncomfortable asking any of the other Society members for assistance. Nor did she want to be in the position of her request being turned down if they held to the same notions as him. She hesitated but a moment and finally decided to call Pierre, who gladly—almost too gladly, she might add—welcomed the chance to see Father’s business. He said he’d welcome helping her get to the bottom of the mystery.
The clank of the mailbox announcing the arrival of today’s post proved a welcome diversion while she waited. She took the handful of mail inside, quickly flicking through the envelopes since the majority had Emma’s name, when she saw an envelope lying on the floor.
I must’ve dropped it, she thought. Emma, she suspected, had scrawled her name and address on the front in a firm hand. Her sister’s handwriting had never been good. Writing in haste only made it worse.
“She must’ve slipped the letter into the mailbox as she left,” Lizzie muttered. “I’m glad she reached out. I really am.”
She opened the letter, feeling more hopeful that any rift between them would soon be corrected. The crisp white linen sheet crinkled in her hands as she unfolded it. She stared in confusion at the hastily scribbled message. It read, Meet me at Father’s business. Two o’clock. Come alone. It was signed with a big initial ‘E’.
That was all it said. A quick glance at the delicate gold watch pinned on her blouse told her it was just past one. How odd that Emma would decide to go to the very place she’d planned to visit! Her sister must have come to the same conclusion she had.
Lizzie looked again at the letter, front and back, but had no doubt her sister wrote it. If Emma wanted to meet her there so they could both investigate and air their disagreements without anyone else round, Lizzie certainly would honor the request. It seemed like a good idea for a number of reasons.
Too impatient to wait for Pierre, she instead ran to telephone a couple of her previous chauffeurs. Luckily one of the young men agreed to take her downtown. Hurrying, she set the letter on the table, grabbed her weapons bag, and adjusting her hat, went to stand in the front doorway to wait.
As luc
k would have it, the young man pulled the carriage up in front of the house sooner than she expected. She nodded to him in greeting as he hurried out to help her into her seat.
“Where to, Miss Borden?”
“If you can take me to Mr. Borden’s business on Main Street, please, then you can leave as I have some things to attend to there.”
He dipped his head and flicked the reins at the sleek, black horse. “Very well, Miss.”
Chapter Thirty
FREE FROM GUILT.
—Headline, The Morning Call, San Francisco, June 21, 1893
T
he A.J. Borden building stood modern and solemn in the midday sun, a sturdy reminder and fitting memorial of Father’s standing in the business community. With spacious offices, plenty of interior storage, and large, attractive storefront windows at the street level, Lizzie suspected the building would be in use for many years to come. It certainly showed Father’s foresight.
With a sigh she thanked the young man who helped her out of the carriage, and made her way to the back door, glad to see no one about. She didn’t want to talk with anyone who happened by. As she fit the key in the lock, the door creaked partly open, a sign Emma must have arrived already.
Lizzie slipped inside and closed the door, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dimness. Dust motes danced like Dracula’s minions in the stream of sunlight filtering in from the top windows. She shivered, wishing some other reference had come to mind.
“Emma?”
No answer.
Her shoes shushed on the polished wood floor, the only sound in the stillness. Lizzie edged her way carefully down the hall, wondering if Emma had decided to wait in Father’s office. A skittering sound made her gasp and wheel about. For what felt like minutes instead of seconds, she stood, listening, her heartbeat pounding in her ears, but all remained quiet. How silly of her. Of course a building like this surely had mice and other rodents.
“Get hold of yourself,” she whispered.
The offices she passed sat empty. A lone gray hat hung on a wall hook. A tired black umbrella rested in a corner, the only clues that anyone had been there at all. For the most part, the offices looked well-ordered and efficient. She smiled at the sight of the piles of typewritten pages sitting on many of the desks—and not a typewriting machine in sight. It looked like Father held to his attitude against the machines, even here.
She continued down the hall and stopped at the largest office door at the end, which she rightly assumed, was Father’s office. She waited a second, and hearing nothing, pushed the door open. “Emma?”
To her disappointment, the room stood empty though she spotted what looked like her sister’s black and brown tapestry bag on the floor. While she waited for Emma’s return, she took the time to peruse the room. An impressive walnut desk topped with various writing accessories, folders, and a light sprinkling of dust commanded attention in the center of the room. A dark brown leather chair sat behind it like a throne.
The walnut paneling gave the space a serious, business-like air, but also made it dark. She flicked the key on the wall gas light and quickly scanned the rows of gold-stamped leather volumes on the bookshelves behind the desk. Another large leather chair and a smaller chair in front of the desk, along with a tall walnut coat stand in the corner, completed the furnishings.
Lizzie checked the clock again. One-thirty. She had plenty of time. She wondered about Pierre. Is he waiting for me at the house? Did he get angry or disappointed that I wasn’t there and leave?
Sighing, she tapped her fingers impatiently on the polished wood of the desk. Where in the world was Emma? Lizzie set her bag down, plopped herself in the large chair behind the desk, and flipped through the correspondence, bills, and letters. A series of numbers scribbled on a small scrap caught her eye. Hmm, I wonder…
She gazed around the room before going to stand in front of a rather bland painting of a farmhouse set amid a golden field of wheat. The artwork hung on the wall in an ornately carved gold frame. Curious, she lifted the edge of the picture and stuck her hand under it, feeling around on the wall. Certain she was on the right path, she lifted the art off the wall, set it aside, and peered at the small metal safe the painting had hidden.
Her first attempt at the dial failed. She tried the numbers again, this time turning the small knob in the opposite direction. The click after the last number told her it had worked. She popped the door open and pulled out a batch of papers. As she flicked through them, her heart fell at the contents. One page listed the names of many influential people who had financed several shipments from—the Caribbean? What could Father have gotten from there?
She folded the page and slipped it into a pocket in her skirt. The rest of the papers on the desk proved less interesting until a familiar logo caught her eye. She held the paper closer, noting the elegant lettering, but it was the actual name that got her heart pounding.
There on the top of the page was the same description as the sign she’d seen on that wagon outside the house: A.B. and C. Tonics. She groaned as the initials became clear. Why didn’t I see this before? A. B. stood, of course, for Andrew Borden, but who, or what, did the C. stand for? Or was it only a clever way to use the alphabet-style symbol as a trademark?
Now more pieces of the puzzle fell into place—the logo, Father’s supposed role, and the connection to ingredients like Licorice Root that she and Emma had found earlier. Emma had been right, she mused. The list had been items in a kind of recipe, a tonic, of all things.
It made her wonder. She would’ve thought Father had enough business concerns to keep him busy, what with the mortuary supplies, selling caskets, his time on the bank boards, plus his civic duties. The unknown concerned her the most. She never expected him to be in the tonic and patent medicine business, too.
She chuckled, realizing her folly. Why should she be surprised? If there was money to be made, Father naturally found a way to get in on the venture.
THUMP. She jumped at the unexpected noise and went to the door. “Emma? It’s about time you got back!” Lizzie complained. “You were so specific about the time, and now you leave me sitting and waiting for you.” She paused. “Emma?”
She peered out at an empty hall. Nothing moved or made a sound.
Lizzie’s impatience flared when more pounding sounded from further down the hall. “Emma? Where are you? Whatever are you doing? Will you please answer!”
She tried to tamp down her anger as she followed the sound. She went down more long hallways and passed other offices until she reached a pair of double doors. One of the doors opened easily. She sniffed, surprised at the strong aroma of cloves, coupled with the sweet, spicy scent of cinnamon. Underneath, she detected a slight musty scent.
The casket showroom. Several types of caskets, ranging from plain burnished wood to gleaming mahogany and walnut, filled the large room. Gold and silver handles glistened. Scented candle holders hung on the walls. A sense of calm filled her as she surveyed the solemn, decorous atmosphere.
Lizzie went into the next room in search of her sister, but instead found herself in what looked like an apothecary. The mid-sized room had been fitted on one wall with shelves, now stocked full. Various boxed ingredients and large containers lined another wall. A long wooden bench and a large worktable completed the furnishings. She picked up a small bottle, not surprised to see the now-familiar tonic label. The scent of licorice and cinnamon tickled her nose.
Looking up, she noticed a long metal chute extending down through a hole in the ceiling. The chute, which served as a kind of funnel, had been pushed aside, giving the workers more room to move around as they assembled ingredients.
On closer inspection she saw a light coating of something on the metal surface. It wasn’t dust, she realized. Dipping her finger in it caused light puffs to rise from the powder. Her nose tickled. Achoo! She rubbed her powder-coated fingers together, noting the gritty texture.
Lizzie hesitated a moment before she held
her fingers to her nose, sniffed, and let out another big sneeze. There seemed to be no detectable scent, but it did irritate her nose. Puzzled as to the source, she wiped the unknown ingredient off her hands. She made for the hall, wondering if she could find the beginning of the chute and see what it was used for.
As she stood in the cavernous space, she felt vibrations under her feet. Something was moving, or being pushed around; something big. All thoughts of that fled when she noticed something white lying on the stone floor near the stairs. She dashed across the room, her inner alarms jangling.
“Emma!” Lizzie picked up the white, lacy handkerchief, every nerve in her body jangling. “Emma!” Lizzie raced back and forth, growing more frantic. “Emma, where are you? Please, answer me!”
Her heart pounded so hard Lizzie felt faint as she eyed the worn, wooden staircase. Seeing nowhere else to go, she carefully made her way to the upper level, her hand trailing against the cool stone wall beside her for support. She went up the rickety steps, cringing with each creak of the wood, yet determined to find her sister.
As she got to the top and stopped before a heavy wood door, she heard what sounded like yells. It was hard to hear with the increasingly louder thuds, like something heavy was being moved. Her mouth dry, she wrapped a sweaty hand around the doorknob and pulled it open.
“NOOOO!” She screamed at the sight before her. “Oh, no, dear Lord, no!”
Chapter Thirty-One
Suppose that a man should tell as many different stories as Lizzie had done.
—United Press, Semi-Weekly Gazette and Bulletin,
Pennsylvania, 1892
“N
o, no! Who did this?” Lizzie cried. “NO!”
Her heart in her throat, she stared at the frail figure bound and tied in front of her. Dear God, what kind of fiend would do such a thing?
She stumbled into the cavernous, mostly empty space, barely able to hear above the pounding of the giant grinding stones as they shifted in the center of the room. A quick glance told her the slabs, each weighing at least a hundred pounds and wider than two large men, had been positioned and lowered by the heavy chains and winch above. The stones turned on a center rod and ground the material placed under them, which then fell into a kind of sieve. The material, she suspected, then traveled down to that chute she’d seen in the workroom below.
Lizzie Borden, Zombie Hunter (Book 1): Lizzie Borden, Zombie Hunter Page 19