The Purple Nightgown

by A. D. Lawrence

  The nurse, Sarah. Had she done this? Or was it Sam? Stella chided herself. While Sam lacked much in the way of personality, suspecting him of murder was a leap.

  Stella stepped away from the door. If her suspicions were correct and the woman had been strangled, Dr. Hazzard would report the crime.

  She padded down the corridor, slipped into her bedroom, and pulled the robe tight around her neck. Henry had been right to worry. The little boy’s story of the skeletons had been more fact than fable. If only Henry were here. She’d cable him in the morning. Ask him to take her home. After all she’d seen, she couldn’t stay. It may not be safe. Besides, if Dr. Hazzard cured patients as sick as Dora Williamson, perhaps Stella wasn’t ill enough to seek the kind of treatment others viewed as a last resort.

  But Linda Hazzard had seemed so certain her treatments would answer all Stella’s prayers. Should she call for Henry or remain here for treatment?

  At the thought of Henry and home, peace embraced her. Yes. She’d swallow her pride, admit her wrong, and go home. Since Henry had read Dr. Hazzard’s book, he could help her fast in familiar surroundings. Thank heaven he had read the cursed thing. Though how he made sense of it was a mystery. When Stella tried, confusion had set in after fifteen pages, and she’d struggled to make heads or tails of the medical jargon.

  A chill settled in her bones. First thing in the morning, she’d send the telegram. She pulled the pillow off the bed and hugged it tight. The longer she stayed in this place, the more danger she may find herself in.

  But why had Dr. Hazzard and Sarah seemed so unfazed by the presence of the saw in the death chamber? Such things were far from ordinary. Bile rose in Stella’s throat, but she forced it down. If the nurse or whoever killed that poor woman had any inkling the crime had been discovered, Stella’s life may be the next snuffed out.

  Chapter Ten

  A knock on Stella’s door jolted her awake. Her eyelids cracked. At the sight of her room at Wilderness Heights, she groaned. It hadn’t been a dream. This wasn’t home, and Jane wasn’t waking her to prepare her for breakfast with Uncle Weston. Her throat ached.

  Another knock, this one more insistent. “Miss Burke. Breakfast in twenty minutes.”

  “Coming.” She rolled over in bed, clasping the pillow to her middle. Last night’s osteopathic massage had been postponed for obvious reasons, though Dr. Hazzard hadn’t mentioned the woman’s murder.

  Footsteps in the hallway had kept her awake long into the night. Probably the police. No doubt Nurse Sarah would be at the sheriff’s office for questioning.

  Her stomach gnawed at her ribs. After the scare of seeing the skeleton over the bathtub, she had skipped dinner, overcome with another headache. Maybe Henry was right. Stress must play a part. She’d promised to journal her symptoms, and when he brought her home he might suggest it again. Her toes peeked from beneath the covers to touch the cold floor. She moved to the writing desk in the corner and sat on the uncomfortable wooden chair. Might as well start keeping records.

  As she jotted the circumstances and feelings surrounding her migraine, her stomach gurgled, reminding her that her notes could wait. Breakfast trumped all else.

  She pulled a blue-and-white-striped linen dress from the closet, slipped out of her nightgown, and pulled the dress over her head. One glance in the mirror showed snarled hair, and she puffed out a sigh. If only Dr. Buzzard hadn’t denied her request to keep Jane. How would she ever manage alone? Stella bit back a smile. Henry’s nickname for the doctor might get her in trouble if it should ever slip out in conversation.

  After plaiting her hair as well as her fumbling fingers allowed, she ran her hands over the skirt of her dress to smooth the wrinkles. She checked the clock on the wall. Three minutes to spare.

  In the dining room, she scanned the round tables, each covered with a white cloth. Only eleven patients waited for the morning meal. One woman wore a blank expression, her hazy eyes staring into the void, and spittle dripped down her chin. She must have come looking for mental healing. And her cheeks were sunken, though not as badly as Dora’s.

  Where was Dora? As thin and frail as she was, food would be a lifeline. But her face was nowhere among the others. What if she had to sit with a stranger? Stella swallowed against the dryness in her mouth. She should have stayed in her room and ordered breakfast on a tray.

  A middle-aged gentleman with graying hair motioned to her. His smile warmed the lonely chill in Stella’s soul. “If you’re looking for a place to sit, there’s a chair here.” He patted the seat beside him.

  Stella returned his smile and settled into the offered chair. A young man set a short glass about a quarter full of orange juice in front of Stella without so much as a nod of acknowledgment. The sweet, tangy aroma poked her empty stomach, and she snatched the glass off the table.

  “Slow down.” The man who’d invited her to dine with him placed a hand on her arm. “You’ll want to make it last.” He lifted a spoon off the tablecloth, dipped it into his cup, and took a sip fit for an infant.

  Make it last? Was this breakfast? All of it?

  Stella pulled in a breath, testing the air for eggs, toast, even porridge. Nothing. Hadn’t Dr. Hazzard promised the regime would begin with two meals a day? Certainly this didn’t constitute a meal.

  “What is your name, sir?” She picked up her spoon and followed his example. Never had orange juice tasted more like sweet nectar. Pity there wasn’t more to be had.

  “Wendell Church at your service.” He tipped an imaginary hat. His amiable smile seemed to be a permanent fixture beneath his mustache.

  “What brings you here? You look to be in excellent health.” Apart from a bright red tinge to his skin, Mr. Church appeared to be a testament to Dr. Hazzard’s skill.

  He spooned another sip of juice into his mouth, mustache twitching. “I’ve suffered bouts of indigestion since I was a boy. When I saw an advertisement for Wilderness Heights, I came straightaway. This is my second week, and I’ve already seen some improvements.”

  Maybe this place wasn’t so very frightening. A woman a few years older than Stella with black hair pulled into the Gibson-girl fashion claimed the chair beside Mr. Church. Though thin, she didn’t appear emaciated like the photographs Stella had seen of the children in India—or like Dora or the murdered woman.

  “Tilda.” He patted her shoulder. “Let me introduce you to a new friend.” He cast Stella a questioning glance. “What was your name, my dear?”

  “Stella Burke.” She savored a sip of orange juice.

  “Very well, very well, Tilda Jennings, meet Stella Burke.”

  Tilda smiled, reaching for her spoon. She already knew about stretching breakfast. How long had she been here?

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Stella forced down the fluttering in her chest brought on by talking with strangers. Lights, sharp and swirling, crept across her vision. She dropped her spoon and rested her head in her hand. Time and consistency would chase the toxins from her body along with the pain, but unfamiliar surroundings made the throbbing worse. Oh, to curl up in her own bed with the drapes closed and a pillow over her head.

  “I’m guessing you get migraines.” Tilda’s voice was barely above a whisper, as if she understood the additional pain a sentence spoken aloud inflicted.

  Stella nodded, keeping her eyes closed tight. “Do you suffer from them as well?”

  “I do—I did.” Tilda’s spoon clinked against her glass. The low murmurs of other patients landed like shouts on Stella’s ears, each syllable delivering staccato pain.

  “You did?”

  “I’ve been fasting for ten days. And in the last two, I’ve had no attacks. It’s a miracle, really.” She paused, likely sipping from her spoon. “Before I started Dr. Hazzard’s regime, my head ached constantly. There were good days and bad, of course, but I was never without pain to some degree.”

  “Tell me about the treatments.” Stella rubbed the spot above her eyebrow where the throb had
settled. “I’ve been told about massages and”—she glanced at Mr. Church and lowered her voice—“internal baths.”

  Mr. Church chuckled as he discarded his spoon in his empty glass. “Stella, my dear, we have no secrets big or small among us. Our treatments are similar, so no need to hide behind a cloak of decorum.” Chair legs scraped as he shifted in his seat. “And to answer your question,’ internal bath’ is just another name for Chinese water torture. I’m sure of it.”

  Tilda snorted a laugh, and Stella cracked her eyelids to meet the woman’s gaze. “Is it really that bad?”

  With a reluctant smile, Tilda nodded. “The first time is very unpleasant, but the body grows accustomed to the discomfort.” She lifted the glass to her lips, holding it upside down to catch the final drop. “Truth be told, I prefer the internal baths to Dr. Hazzard’s massages.”

  Stella shuddered, pushing her half-finished breakfast away.

  “You’re not going to finish that?” Mr. Church eyed her juice like a cat does a mouse.

  She gestured to the glass. “It’s yours if you like, Mr. Church.”

  With the reflexes of a shell game artist, he switched her partial cup for his empty one. “Much obliged. And you can call me Wendell. Just as there are no secrets, there are no formalities.” He scooped juice into his mouth then sighed as if he’d tasted ice cream.

  “What are the massages like?” Stella rested her arms on the table. “I’m to have my first later this morning.”

  An empty look settled in Tilda’s eyes, and her brow puckered. “The first time is rather painful. Though I’ve never enjoyed the kneading and pounding, it helps to know the pain stems from toxins leaving the body. If not for that, I’d never permit it.”

  Kneading and pounding? Could it be as bad as all that? If Tilda’s assessment was true, the sooner Stella sent word to Henry, the better.

  “If I wanted to send a telegram to a friend, who would I speak with?” Though Wendell and Tilda had found healing, the fear inspired by last night’s discovery still clawed her brain. She needed a plan in case something went awry.

  “Rollie Burfield.” Wendell drained the last dribble of juice, scraped his finger along the inside of the cup, and licked it.

  “Who’s Rollie Burfield?” She scanned the room. Several patients stood, their clothes too large for their bodies.

  “Dr. Hazzard’s son.” Tilda pointed to a man at the doorway. He had inherited his mother’s dark eyes and firm jaw. “He does the fetching and carrying around here. Give your message to him, and he’ll see it’s sent.”

  A tap on Stella’s shoulder drew her attention from Rollie. When her gaze met that of the woman she’d seen with Dr. Hazzard and the dead lady, her blood froze. Nurse Sarah. Why was she here? Shouldn’t she be at the police station, answering questions about the woman’s murder? Unless someone else bore the blame for the woman’s death.

  “Miss Burke.” Sarah’s voice dripped with artificial honey. “Time for your osteopathic massage. Put on your robe and meet Dr. Hazzard in the upstairs hall. She’ll be with you shortly.”

  Stella rose, laying her napkin on the place mat where a plate should have been.

  In daylight, Sarah appeared young, even pleasant. Her rosy lips parted in a tight smile. “Very good.” She squeezed Stella’s arm. “I’ll let the doctor know you’ll be ready in a moment.”

  “You’re Sarah?” Stella bit the inside of her cheek.

  “Sarah Anderson.” The nurse nodded, white cap bobbing. “If you need anything, just ask. I want to see you feeling much better by the time you leave.”

  How could this soft-spoken woman be a murderer? The pieces didn’t fit. Something was missing. “I do need to send a telegram.”

  Nurse Anderson guided her to Rollie and the doorway. “Miss Burke would like to send a cable.”

  Rollie Burfield shoved his hands into his pockets and fixed Stella with a roguish stare. “Is that so?”

  “Don’t be impossible, Rollie. I’d hate to tell your mother you were misbehaving.”

  Though he was a grown man, Rollie’s face blanched. “Don’t go to extremes.” He forced a smile. “Bring me the message once you’ve written it, and I’ll take it to the telegraph office in Olalla.”

  “Thank you.” Stella strode to the staircase. That mother-son relationship must be fraught with dysfunction. If a man who appeared to be in his late twenties harbored such fear, why didn’t he move away? Start his own life?

  In her room, Stella replaced her dress with the robe then waited outside her door for Dr. Hazzard, fingers clasping the robe’s collar at her throat.

  Footsteps in the hall signaled the doctor’s approach. “Right this way, Miss Burke.” Dr. Hazzard ushered her into a room closed in by stark white walls. A table with a thin layer of padding sat at the room’s center. “Remove the robe and lie facedown on the cot.” The doctor’s tone proved that seeing her patients in compromising positions didn’t faze her.

  No one but Jane had ever seen Stella in such a state. She tightened her grip on the collar.

  “Off with it.” Patience drained from Dr. Hazzard’s voice. “If you ever hope to be well, you must learn to follow instructions. The toxins are killing you, but it seems like you want that to happen.”

  Stella let the robe drop to the floor and avoided meeting the doctor’s stern eye as she scrambled onto the table.

  “Now lie still.” Dr. Hazzard kneaded Stella’s thighs like bread dough. “Your body is full of poison, and while you may experience discomfort, this part of the process eliminates the toxins from the body. It’s very important for your health.”

  Stella closed her eyes tight, fighting the tears that prickled as Dr. Hazzard’s kneading gave way to heavy thumps on the back of Stella’s head. The discomfort the doctor mentioned far surpassed the pain of any headache Stella had suffered. Maybe that was the good thing about this part of the regime. It took her mind off the migraine.

  Dr. Hazzard’s hands balled into fists, and she punched and pounded Stella’s back, legs, and head. “Eliminate! Eliminate!” At the sound of the battle cry, Stella’s heart leaped into her throat. It was as if a demon had taken possession of the doctor’s body and was bent on taking out his rage on Stella’s back and shoulders.

  A tear escaped Stella’s eye and trickled down her nose, hanging on at the tip for a moment then dripping onto the padding. This went far beyond fasting—far beyond what her mind had pictured.

  But this was only the half of it. The internal baths still stared her down, and Wendell had likened them to Chinese water torture. She bit her lip to hold back the sob building in her throat.

  Her mind drifted to flying kites in the meadow with Henry when they were children. As happy memories blocked her current situation, the pain faded. That was the day they’d found that awful man with a gunny sack of kittens. He was taking them to the lake. But Henry had saved them, and they’d bottle-fed the litter together, keeping the mewing darlings in her room. Jane had known their secret, but she hadn’t given it away to Mama.

  “Eliminate!” Dr. Hazzard’s savage shriek and war against the toxins in Stella’s body snatched her back to reality.

  Another tear fell onto the padding. She needed Henry. Lord, please, let him forgive my unkindness and come for me.

  Chapter Eleven

  Henry carried Jane’s bags to the door then drove the motorcar into the shed. Sorrow nagged him, and Stella’s face sprang to mind. She’d played him for a fool. Conned him into driving her to Wilderness Heights with promises to return home if the course of treatments made him uneasy. But she’d never planned on getting back in the automobile. From the start, she had known she would break her promise.

  But the skeletons little Jack spoke of. The aching dread in the pit of his stomach warned Henry the story was more than a frightening yarn to make children behave. But if Wilderness Heights stood at the heart of some sinister plot, and the rumor mill had reached a little boy in Seattle, why hadn’t the police done anythin
g?

  He rolled his neck until it popped. If Jack’s story held an ounce of truth, the sanatorium would have been boarded up long ago. Stella was fine. This was precisely why one didn’t put stock in children’s stories.

  Footsteps at the door called his mind away from the mountains of Olalla, Washington. A footman, William, approached, mouth in a grim line. “Mr. Weston would like to speak with you.”

  What use did Weston have with him? If he needed to order the motor, his valet would make the request. “Did he say what it’s about?”

  “Mr. Weston never discusses his private business with me.” William rolled his eyes. “I’m just the help. But he looked none too pleased.”

  As he followed behind William, a lump formed in Henry’s throat, making it impossible to swallow. As they stepped into the foyer, William motioned to the library. Henry nodded. The click of his heels on the tile ripped through the silence holding the house in an iron grip. Without Stella, the place seemed lifeless. Like a ballroom after the lights had been snuffed out and the music hushed.

  As he pressed on the mahogany door, the hinges groaned.

  “Is that you, Clayton?” Weston’s booming voice carried an edge that left Henry grasping for possible reasons his employer would summon him.

  “Yes, sir.” He snatched off his hat and rotated it in his hands. Weston sat behind his desk, pen in hand. Books lined all four walls, and the aroma of dust, leather, and pipe tobacco hung thick. Henry moved to the chair opposite Mr. Weston.

  “Don’t bother sitting.” The man waved him off as if shooing a fly. “This won’t take long.” He picked an envelope off his desk and held it for Henry to see.

  Henry licked cracked lips, pulse thumping in his temple. The letter he’d sent Stella before he’d known she wouldn’t be in San Francisco to receive it. The flap was torn. Clearly it had been read. A rock settled in his gut.