But she wants to like him. He’s the only living link to the Purcell family, and she’s become attached to them. To Augusta, anyway, and to Florence.
“Did you ever know your grandmother?” she asks him, knowing she lived into the 1930s, while his grandfather had died well before the Great Depression.
“Not really. She wasn’t well. We visited her a few times, but it was a long trip. We didn’t make it very often.”
“I thought you grew up here in town.”
“I did. My grandmother was . . . like I said, she wasn’t well. She was hospitalized in a sanatorium down in Rockland for as long as I can remember.”
“Tuberculosis?” she asks, thinking of her own grandmother.
“Insane,” he says flatly.
Florence? Her Florence?
“You mean it was an asylum?” At his nod, she asks, “What happened? Was it dementia, or . . .”
He shrugs. “I was a little boy. It wasn’t something we talked about around the family dinner table. All I know is that my grandmother was mad. Institutionalized all my life, and for what was left of hers.”
As she digests that, he covers the last few steps to the pedestal and examines the statue, then looks up at her.
“Why are you so curious about this statue?”
“Because of what’s written on it.”
He raises a white eyebrow and returns his gaze to the statue, apparently looking for it. He’s on the wrong side—which means he didn’t know there was an inscription, or he’s faking ignorance.
“Here,” she says, walking over to show him.
He peers at the letters and numbers etched in the base, and shakes his head. “I’m farsighted. What does it say?”
She reads it for him, though from memory, as the inscription is blurred to her as well.
“What does that mean?” he asks her.
“I was wondering if you knew.”
He shakes his head. But she can see the wheels turning in his brain. The significance of the date 7/7/16 hasn’t escaped him.
“I thought maybe those were the initials of someone in your family. Z.D.P. I know there were several women named Griselda—Zelda for short. Do you—”
“How,” he asks, narrowing his eyes, “do you know that?”
“I looked it up online. It was readily available in public records,” she adds hastily.
“But why waste all this time on my family when you have one of your own?”
“I wouldn’t call it ‘all this time.’ It only took a few minutes.”
“But there are certainly plenty of other, more productive things you could be doing with those minutes.” He flicks a meaningful gaze toward the rest of the house, allowing the words to sink in.
He might be rude, but he’s right.
She does have other things to do. The place is a mess, her son is . . . well, he’s not a mess. Not at this particular moment, anyway. Her marriage isn’t a mess, either. Still, she hasn’t been particularly attentive to Trib lately.
Maybe it’s time to let go of the mystery—at least for now.
Waking to cold, damp darkness, Indi faces the ugly truth again.
She’s imprisoned by a maniac, chained to the wall in a dungeon where no one will ever find her. Juanita was murdered, and—
“Kathryn?” Indi calls, remembering the rest of it. “Kathryn!”
No response.
She’s out cold again. With her, Indi knows, it’s never just falling asleep; it’s losing consciousness. Kathryn had precious little physical stamina to begin with.
This brutal incarceration is taking a toll even on Indi.
But there’s hope now. After Kathryn freed herself from her shackles, they formulated a plan. When he comes back, Kathryn will pretend she’s still cuffed to the wall. If he lowers the ladder to descend, Indi will distract him by feigning an injury. Then Kathryn will grab the ladder and swing it at him with all her might. The element of surprise should work in their favor.
It isn’t a perfect plan, but it’s all they’ve got.
“Kathryn?” Indi says again, needing the human contact, and missing Juanita. “Answer me, please! I need to talk to you.”
The darkness is so still.
“Kathryn! Please wake up! Please!”
She can feel the emptiness, almost as if she’s all alone here, which . . .
Wait a minute. Am I?
Could Kathryn have managed to escape while Indi was sleeping? Is she going for help right at this moment?
But she’d have woken me up to say she was going to try. There’s no way she’d have left without telling me she was going.
“Kathryn? Are you here?”
A terrible thought takes hold.
What if he crept back in and took Kathryn away while Indi was sleeping?
I’d have heard him, though, wouldn’t I? I’d have heard a struggle, and she’d have screamed . . .
Maybe not. Maybe Kathryn didn’t make a sound—maybe she was already unconscious, or so frightened that she fainted. And Indi has been so weak that maybe she, too, is passing out.
“Kathryn!” she screams hoarsely. “Kathryn!”
No reply. Fresh dread creeps over Indi as she realizes that she’s alone in the dark.
Holmes’s Case Notes
Six months ago, I used cash to buy three identical nightgowns from Macy’s in a busy Albany shopping mall. If the sales clerk thought it was an odd purchase, she didn’t let on. She barely acknowledged me, jabbering on the phone with a difficult customer as she rang up the sale.
I assume that my predecessor encountered a similarly distracted salesperson when purchasing the three nightgowns at Waldman Brothers Department Store just a few miles from that very spot. Otherwise, surely a clerk would have come forward when news of the murders hit the newspaper.
Until today, of course, I had no proof that S.B.K. obtained the merchandise in that particular place. But in a vintage issue of the Tribune dated just after New Year’s, 1916, I spotted an advertisement for Waldman Brothers’ January white sale featuring “fine muslin nightgowns daintily trimmed with lace.” The ad included a sketch of a woman wearing a garment that was strikingly similar to the ones found on the Sleeping Beauties. Yet another clue, long overlooked by the authorities and masses.
The stolen scrap of fabric I keep wrapped around the buffalo nickel in my pocket wasn’t large enough to make a comparison. But now that I can examine the actual nightgown alongside the ad, I see that I was, indeed, correct in my assumption. They are one and the same.
This garment was found on the Beauty at 46 Bridge on July 8, 1916. Originally white, it has since faded to a lovely buttery shade. There are faint splotches of brown just beneath the lace neckline: blood. The satin ribbons, too, are yellowed and lightly stained with her blood.
Those stains hold the key to Beauty’s identity. All it would take is modern forensics and a DNA sample from her only living relative, right under their noses all along. But of course they don’t know where to look.
And I’m not about to help them.
Chapter 17
It’s bad enough that Annabelle has to walk past the strangers milling around in front of her house in order to collect Oliver from the Winstons’ house on Thursday afternoon. But as she walks up Bridge Street, she can hear Kim and Catherine screaming at each other from a few houses away, their voices spilling from an open window.
“I keep telling you, Mom, I didn’t know she was going!”
“Why would I believe you this time after I keep catching you in lies?”
“Because I’m telling the truth! And I haven’t lied about anything big. It’s just—”
“A lie is a lie, Catherine.”
“I just can’t even. You have to let me go.”
“No. Absolutely not.”
Wincing, Annabelle picks up her pace, hoping Oliver is still plugged into a video game in Connor’s room. Thank goodness for headphones.
But no more electronics for him today, she
reminds herself. I’ll spend the rest of the afternoon with him.
Lester’s visit may not have answered her questions about the statue, but she’s resolved something far more important.
As a competitive swimmer, she learned how to tune out the noise and focus on the immediate challenge. That’s exactly what she’s going to do.
She’d allowed herself to get caught up in the lives of strangers and events that unfolded under her roof a century ago, instead of focusing on her own household and the people she loves.
Probably because it’s much easier to deal with long-dead people than with an anxiety-ridden son and an overworked, preoccupied husband. Yes, and the past, for all its trauma, is much easier to face than the complicated present, let alone an uncertain future.
She remains curious about the history behind the statue, the house, and the unsolved crimes. But she’s ready to spend the afternoon with Oliver and the evening with Trib. She’s looking forward to date night. It’s been much too long.
As she walks up the sidewalk toward the Queen Anne Victorian, she sees that the Winstons’ front door is open wide, with only the screen door to keep the world at bay. Such is life when you don’t live in a Murder House.
Ah—old habits die hard.
You’re not supposed to be dwelling on that anymore. It isn’t a Murder House. It’s home.
Besides, Annabelle thinks as she knocks on the Winstons’ door, it would be easier to forget it’s a Murder House without a crowd of bystanders lurking by the fence.
Dreading the prospect of walking past them again, she’d considered driving down the street. But she coached herself through, just as she used to coach her college swimmers. Come on, don’t let them get to you. Hold your head high and do what you have to do. She felt the strangers’ stares as she walked past and was glad she remembered to put on sunglasses to avoid eye contact, but she was determined not to let them intimidate her.
“Kim?” she calls through the screen door, over the sound of arguing. “I’m here.”
Her friend breaks off, mid-tirade, to call, “Annabelle? It’s open. Come on in.”
She steps over the threshold into a house that’s as lovely and put together as its mistress. The place is magazine perfection, with vases of fresh-cut flowers, framed family photos, and antique collectibles. Kim painstakingly decorated it herself with period furniture, paint, and fabrics in a warm palette of reds and golds.
Our house could look like this, Annabelle thinks as she makes her way toward the kitchen. Not overnight, but in time, and on budget. She remembers visiting yard sales with Kim when the boys were little. Her friend learned how to strip and refinish furniture she’d bought for a few dollars, but you’d never know it’s secondhand, seeing it in these charming rooms.
I can do that, too.
Inspired, Annabelle feels as though she can do anything.
About to walk into the kitchen, she nearly crashes into Catherine, who comes barreling out.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Bingham,” she says, but she doesn’t slow down or look back.
“Catherine! Get back here! We aren’t finished with this conversation!”
“I am.”
“Don’t you dare leave this house!”
“I’m not leaving. Not while you’re here, anyway. I’m going upstairs.” Her footsteps are already bounding up the flight. A moment later, her bedroom door slams above.
Kim sighs heavily. She’s standing by the sink, looking pretty in a petal pink T-shirt and white cutoff shorts, but with a haggard expression that catches Annabelle off guard.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
“I’m okay. She’s a beast.”
“What happened?” Annabelle doesn’t really want to know, but she feels as though she should ask.
“I ran into her friend Jessica’s mother when I went to get my nails done this morning. She was getting her nails done, and talking about the gala tonight. She’s going, too.”
“And . . . ?”
“And Catherine is staying at her house because we’re not going to be home and I didn’t want her here alone. But now she and Jessica are going to be on their own, and—I don’t trust them.” She shakes her head. “Lord knows what they’ll be up to, unsupervised.”
“What about—” Annabelle breaks off as her cell phone rings in her pocket. She takes it out and checks caller ID. “Uh-oh.”
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s Katie Mundy. My sitter for tonight.” She answers the phone, hoping Katie is just checking on the time. “Hello? Katie?”
“Hi, Mrs. Bingham.”
The moment Annabelle hears the hoarseness in her voice, she knows she’s going to cancel—and she’s right.
Hanging up a minute later, after telling Katie to feel better, she looks at Kim. “Strep throat.”
“Oh no.”
“Oh yes. She just came from the doctor. There goes the gala. For me, anyway. Trib is speaking, so he’ll have to go.”
Kim is shaking her head. “No. Catherine can stay with Oliver.”
“You don’t let her babysit.”
“Not for people I don’t know. I’d rather have her being responsible at your house than on her own here, or God forbid at Jessica’s, where they’ll be having boys over or sneaking out or getting into the mother’s liquor stash.”
“Why would you think—”
“Every time I see the woman, I smell booze on her breath. Even in the morning. She’s bad news, and so is her daughter. I don’t want Catherine over there. She’ll babysit.”
“What if she doesn’t want to?”
“I don’t care what she wants. Unless—did Oliver say something about last night?” Her eyes narrow. “Was she mean to him?”
“No! Actually, he said she was great.”
“Really?”
Not really. What he’d said was that Catherine was great at the video game they were playing.
“She told me not to tell anyone, though,” he told Annabelle as she tucked him in.
“Tell anyone what?”
“That she plays games. It’s our secret. And I didn’t mean to tell you. So please don’t tell, Mom. Because when Catherine gets mad at people, she does mean things to them.”
“Like what?”
“Like she takes their favorite stuff and hides it until they give her money to get it back.”
“Is that what she does to Connor?”
He nodded.
“I don’t think she’d do that to you,” Annabelle said, “but don’t worry. I won’t tell.”
She, like Oliver, may not have ever experienced sibling conflict firsthand, but she recognized that what Oliver was describing wasn’t malicious behavior. Just typical big sister tyranny—extortion and all.
“I’m glad Oliver said she’s great,” Kim says now. “At least that means she’s capable of being a decent human being. I haven’t seen that in a long time.”
Annabelle considers that. “Maybe you should just let her stay home on her own for a change, Kim. Maybe she’s feeling smothered.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m worried.”
“Because of Brianna Armbruster? That wasn’t—”
“It’s not just that, Annabelle. It’s been so hard lately. Just me and her, day after day, with Connor gone, and Ross never home—I have to deal with her on my own, and I swear I just don’t know what to do with her.”
“She’s a good kid, though.” Annabelle can’t help but feel as though Kim is overreacting.
Then again, who is she to even consider that?
“She’s always texting with kids I don’t know and with boys, and you can’t imagine the way she’d dress if I’d let her, Annabelle . . . and she hates me so much she keeps threatening to run away. I’m afraid she’s going to do it. That, or get herself into some kind of trouble.”
Seeing the vulnerability in her friend’s eyes, Annabelle nods. “Okay, I get it. If you think she won�
�t mind, I’d love to have her babysit for Oliver. Thanks you for saving our date night.”
“Thank you for helping me save my kid,” Kim tells her with a sad smile.
Nick Colonomos isn’t available when Sully and Barnes arrive at the police station, Barnes holding a cup of coffee, Sully a cup of tea and a box of cookies courtesy of the Gingersnap Sweet Shop.
According to Wilbur Morton, the lieutenant is over at the historical society, investigating a theft.
“A theft? In broad daylight, with all those people around?” she asks incredulously, having seen the line stretching out to the sidewalk again today.
“No, early this morning. But Miss Abrams has been beside herself, and Lieutenant Colonomos went over to talk to her. He’s going to post an officer there tonight during the gala.”
“Is that the gala we’re attending?” Barnes asks Sully.
“No, some other random gala here in town.”
“Always with the sarcasm. Do you see what I have to put up with?” he asks Wilbur, shaking his head.
“Nobody held a gun to your head to get you here,” Sully points out. “But don’t you piss me off, because I have one.”
“See that, Wilbur? Now she’s threatening me.”
Wilbur smiles, digging into the box of cookies Sully handed him. “I think she’s a breath of fresh air. We could use someone like Detective Sullivan around here.”
“Careful what you wish for,” Barnes tells him.
Ignoring that, Sully tells Wilbur that they’re here to look at some old case files. She doesn’t bother to clarify that they’re not connected to the one they investigated here in December.
Wilbur leads them to a large storage room filled with file cabinets and rows of shelves lined with cardboard evidence boxes, tells them to holler if they need help, and shuts the door behind him.
Barnes turns to her with an admiring look. “Nice job.”
She shrugs. “Don’t ask, don’t tell. Let’s find 1916.”
It doesn’t take long. One long shelf is devoted to the Sleeping Beauty murders. Each box is carefully labeled. They peruse the contents, looking for victimology clues that might have been overlooked a century ago.
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