by Wendy Webb
She nodded. “Now that I think about it, yes. She was going on and on about not putting anything like that into her body.”
I turned to Nate. “You said fear and trauma could also cause this.”
He nodded. “Very possible,” he said. “Whatever the cause, we need to get in touch with her next of kin. Eleanor, I’m assuming you have that information?”
My heart sank. I had no idea. I had not seen anything in their files about a next of kin, and truthfully, it had not even occurred to me to ask. I must’ve looked like a deer in headlights. My eyes darted to Nate. Please help.
He sensed what I was asking without me asking it. “I believe Miss Penny kept next-of-kin info with the fellows’ applications,” he said.
“I’ll get it,” Richard piped up. “Eleanor—the keys to your study.”
I dug them out of my pocket and tossed them to him. “Thanks,” I said, sharing a quick smile.
I turned back to Nate. “We won’t be able to get an ambulance here tonight,” I said. “The road hasn’t been repaired.”
“Well, that’s it, then,” Nate said. “I’ll sit here with her and monitor her vitals.”
He opened his bag and fished out a hypodermic needle and a vial. “In the meantime, I’ll give her something to help her sleep,” he said, drawing liquid from the vial into the hypo and injecting it into her arm.
We all stood in silence for a few moments, until Brynn’s eyes fluttered closed. I think the whole group of us exhaled simultaneously.
“We should move her to her own room,” I said, catching Diana’s eye. “You need somewhere to sleep, too.”
She pursed her lips and shook her head. “What I set up here for her has not served its purpose,” she said. “She can’t be moved now.”
I felt a pang of annoyance at her continued mumbo jumbo. But Nate piped up, stopping my thoughts in their tracks. “I agree with her,” he said. “Not about the setting”—he gave me a quick wink—“but as long as she’s on the bed here and resting comfortably, we shouldn’t jostle her around. Let’s let her be.”
Diana opened one of her drawers and retrieved a nightgown. “I can sleep in her room,” she said. “It’s not a problem.”
I shrugged. Where she rested her head for the night was the least of my worries. I had a feeling none of us were going to be getting much sleep, anyway.
“We’ll get you some clean—” I started, when Richard stopped my words by walking back into the room carrying a file.
“I couldn’t find any information about Brynn’s next of kin,” he said, looking from one to the other of us. “Or any of ours.” He put the file down, along with a spiral notebook, on the desk in Diana’s study. “Before anybody leaves this room, write down your emergency contacts and next-of-kin information. I’ll do the same. I’m not saying anything else is going to happen, but we can’t be at loose ends if it does.”
Nods all around. But once again, I realized what a poor job I was doing as director. I should have made sure all of that was in place when they got here.
“I’m sorry, everyone,” I began, but Henry put up his hand to stop me.
“Don’t even say it,” Henry said, his eyes flashing. “You’ve been nothing but wonderful since the minute we stepped onto the grounds. And you’ve been dealing with such extraordinary, horrible circumstances.”
“Hear, hear,” Cassandra said, crossing the room and taking my hands into hers. “If anything illustrates a trial by fire, this is it. And you’ve handled it all with grace and good humor. It’s not your fault our next-of-kin information isn’t in the files. It’s Penelope Dare’s.”
Her words stopped me short. Was it Miss Penny’s fault? And if so, did she omit that information simply to put an obstacle in my path? What else had she done to make sure I wasn’t successful?
But I let that thought go, too. “Please, let’s just get our info written down, and we’ll leave Brynn to the doctor.”
They did as I asked, and I tore the sheet of paper out of the notebook and put it into the folder. Then we all filed out of the room but lingered in the hallway outside the door.
“What in the name of God happened to her?” Henry whispered. “I’ve never seen anything like that in my life.”
Richard and I exchanged glances. “I don’t know for sure,” I said, “but I really don’t think any of us should be alone tonight. It felt dangerous before, but now it is dangerous. There’s safety in numbers.”
“Agreed,” Henry said. “What do you say we all head into my room and watch a movie? Something light and airy.”
“That’s a great idea,” I said, smiling at him and squeezing his arm. “I’ll join you in a few minutes.”
Richard gave me a scowl. “This, from the one who just said we shouldn’t be alone?”
I took a deep breath and decided to fill everybody in. “I want to take some time to read all of that info we found today,” I said, turning to the others. “I’ve dug up a bunch of articles about what was happening here in 1952. If we know what we’re up against, we’ll be better armed.”
“I’ll go with you,” he said.
I shook my head. “You go with the others and I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
With that, I turned on my heel and made my way down the hall to my study just in time to see Harriet at the top of the stairs, a worried look on her face.
“How’s the girl?” she asked.
“Brynn’s resting right now,” I told her. “But . . . it’s not good, Harriet. The doctor—Nate—is tending to her, monitoring her vital signs for any change.”
She nodded. “He’s the best there is.”
I didn’t know quite what to say. We looked at each other, both understanding the gravity of this situation. I wondered just how much Harriet knew.
“The dinner is all prepared,” she said, finally. “Shepherd’s pie. It’s warming in the oven.”
She left me then, going back the way she had come, and I opened the door to my office, hoping I’d find the key to this whole mess in those files I had downloaded.
CHAPTER 32
I flipped open my laptop and waited as it whirred to life. And then I clicked on the first article.
Dare Daughter, Temperance, Dies of TB
Temperance Dare, age seven, the youngest daughter of local businessman and philanthropist Chester Dare, died yesterday at the Cliffside Sanatorium in Wharton.
“What a tragedy,” said the san’s resident physician, Nathan Davidson. “The man built this place to take care of tuberculosis patients, and his own daughter winds up succumbing to this horrible disease. We did everything we could to save the child, but it was not to be. It’s one more sad example that TB knows no class, no age, and no sex. Everyone is vulnerable to this plague.”
Chester Dare and his older daughters are said to be grieving in seclusion.
I clicked on the next article. Nothing pertinent. And the next, and the next, until something relevant caught my eye.
Newsman Archie Abbott Dies at Cliffside Sanatorium
Cassandra’s grandfather, I thought. I read on.
Famed Chicago newsman Archie Abbott died yesterday at Cliffside Sanatorium in Wharton.
He had been treated for tuberculosis for several months and was reportedly recovering when he died suddenly.
“It’s a shame,” said Edward R. Murrow, using more colorful language than this reporter can relay. “Abby was one of the greats.”
I checked the dates. The very day Temperance died. I read on. The next article stopped me short.
Sanatorium Doctor, Dead at Age 42
Doctor Nathan Davidson, the renowned physician at Cliffside Sanatorium and in Wharton at large, has died at age 42 in his home on the sanatorium grounds. The cause of death has not yet been determined, but it is initially thought that it is not related to TB.
I read it again, and then again, shaking my head. This just didn’t make sense. Nate told me his father had practiced well into old age before turning over
his practice to Nate.
And then I looked at the picture, and gasped at what I saw. I knew those eyes. I knew that grin. He was even wearing the same white coat, with the same name stitched above the breast pocket, that I had seen Nate wearing. He was a dead ringer for his dad. Or . . . but that couldn’t be.
I shook my head, trying to shake those ridiculous thoughts away. Nate had told me he liked tradition. He was using his dad’s doctor bag. He probably wore the same type of white coat, too.
But . . . if his father died in 1952, which he did, according to this article, then that would make Nate more than sixty years old. And that simply wasn’t possible. The timelines just didn’t add up.
I stared at the photo on the screen, trying to gather my thoughts. He had told me that his father had been the doctor at Cliffside when it was a sanatorium, right? Not his grandfather? Because that would make more sense. That had to be it. This article had to be about his grandfather.
But he had told me he was Nathan Davidson Junior. Hadn’t he?
I had to clear this up. The man was right down the hall, for goodness’ sake. I pushed my chair back from my desk, intending to go ask Nate about this, when I heard a quick knock on my door. I opened it and found Richard there, a grave look on his face.
“What’s the matter?” I asked him.
“Cassandra has disappeared,” he said.
“What?” I asked him. “How? Everyone was together, I thought. It’s only been, what, twenty minutes since I came in here?”
He cocked his head to the side and gave me a strange look. “Eleanor, you’ve been in your study for a good four hours. I was tempted to come and see what you were doing, but you made it clear you wanted to be alone. It’s nearly ten o’clock.”
Another ice-cold wave washed over me. I turned to the clock on the desk and realized he was right. Four hours had indeed passed. The light that had been streaming in from the windows had faded, and darkness had taken its place. I hadn’t even noticed. But . . . how? I had only just powered up my computer, hadn’t I?
And there, sitting on the shelf behind my desk—another doll. Richard saw it the same time I did.
“How did that thing get in here?” he asked.
I just shook my head. “I have no idea,” I said. “I didn’t notice it when I came in. Did you lock the door after you were in here looking for our contact info?”
He closed his eyes and shook his head. “I didn’t,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”
I reached out and put my hand on his arm. “Richard, I don’t like this,” I said.
“Neither do I,” he said.
“How did she go missing? I thought you were all together?” I asked.
“After we all watched a movie in Henry’s room, Cassandra went downstairs to get a bite of dinner, and nobody has seen her since. I can’t believe I let her go down there alone.” He ran a hand through his hair.
My stomach seized up, and the room began to sway. I put a hand on the doorframe to steady myself. I knew just where we had to look for her, but I couldn’t make myself say the words. So I just looked at Richard with wide eyes and hoped he would understand.
He nodded, his expression grave. “I thought the same thing. The third floor.”
My heart sank. “We should get the others and—”
A shout cut off my comment. We both hurried into the hallway and found Henry carrying Cassandra toward Diana’s room. We followed.
Nate, who had been sitting in an armchair across from the bed, shot to his feet and gasped. “Oh no,” he said.
That’s when I saw she had the same garish makeup painted onto her face. The same ghastly smile. How she would hate that, the woman who never had so much as one hair out of place. A tear escaped my eye and ran down my cheek as I hurried to the bathroom and plucked several of Diana’s makeup-removing cloths from their case. Then I sat on the bed next to Cassandra and began wiping that horrid paint from her lips and eyes, my own wet with tears. She didn’t react, her eyes staring into space as though she was still looking at the last thing she’d seen before retreating to wherever she was now.
Nate bent over Cassandra and took her pulse. “She’s in the same state as Brynn.” He reached into his bag and fished out another hypodermic, filled it with liquid from the same vial he had used before, expelled a bit from the tip of the needle. He caught my eye. “I really shouldn’t be giving either of them a sedative without knowing their medical histories, but I don’t see any other choice.”
“You’re working with the information you have right now,” I said. “That’s all you can do.”
He nodded and plunged the needle into Cassandra’s arm.
I smoothed her hair behind her ears and watched as her eyes fluttered closed. Whoever—whatever—had done this to these women was a monster.
Nate ran a hand through his hair, clearly exasperated. “They both need IV fluids,” he said. “But there’s none of that equipment on hand anymore. This place used to be a hospital, for chrissake. What I wouldn’t give for two bags of saline.”
Henry leaned against the wall, exhaling a deep breath. “Does anybody else want a brandy?”
“Where was she?” Richard asked Henry. “I mean to say . . .” We all knew what he was getting at.
“The same way,” Henry said, a visible shudder going through him. “At the tea party. Somehow I just knew she’d be there.”
“You shouldn’t have gone up there alone,” Richard said. “You should have had me go with you. You could have run into whoever, whatever, is doing this.”
Henry sighed. “I know. I just acted without thinking.”
Nate turned to face all of us. “Okay,” he said, “I’d like for all of you fellows to stay together tonight. In one room, as Eleanor suggested before. Nobody goes anywhere without company.”
There were nods all around.
Nate continued. “Let’s just let this night pass and get daylight on the situation, and we’ll take some action.”
“What are we going to do?” I asked him.
“We need to get these two to the hospital,” Nate said. “And then I think it’s time that everyone pack up and leave here. We—all of us—know now that what happened to Brynn wasn’t an isolated incident. It’s not a stretch to say you’re all in danger.” He turned to me. “Our first priority when the sun comes up is getting everyone off the property safely.”
Richard squinted at him, a look of suspicion in his eyes. “Eleanor is leaving, too,” he said. “I won’t go without her.”
Nate returned his stare. “I’m just as committed to getting Eleanor out of this safely as you are,” he said. “Make no mistake about that.”
Oh, Lord, I thought. Male egos. Now was not the time.
“Listen,” I said to the group. “I think Doctor Davidson is right. You all go into Henry’s room. I’ll bring some extra bedding. Everybody’s sleeping there tonight.”
“Including you?” Richard asked, eyeing me and then giving Nate a look.
“Including her,” Nate answered.
“I just need to ask the doctor something,” I said, speaking primarily to Richard. “In private. I’ll follow in a few minutes, I promise.”
“I don’t think—” Richard started, but Nate held up a hand.
“I’ll make sure she gets back to you safely,” Nate said.
“See that you do,” Richard said. Then he turned to me. “If you’re not there in ten minutes, I’m coming to get you.”
“While Norrie is talking to the doctor, let’s, the three of us, make our way downstairs and get some water for us all, and anything we’d like to eat,” Diana suggested. “That is, if anybody feels like eating.”
She turned to Nate. “Are you hungry? You’ve been tending to them for hours.”
He smiled at her. “I could do with a little something,” he said. “That’s very kind.”
They filed out then, leaving Nate and me alone with the unconscious bodies of Brynn and Cassandra. It was an eerie sight, the
two of them laid out like that, candles blazing all around them, the smell of incense hanging in the air.
I pushed the door closed and turned to him. “I have a question to ask you that is going to sound sort of strange.”
He smiled up at me, that same impish smile I had seen so many times over the past several days. “Well, that sounds interesting,” he said. “What is it?”
“How old are you?”
He chuckled. “Why? Do my boyish good looks contrast too sharply with my deep wealth of medical experience and knowledge? If so, I’ve been told that before.”
“Well, there’s that, sure,” I said, giving him a weak smile, not quite knowing how to ask what I really wanted to ask. “The thing is, I just read an article online that didn’t make sense to me, and I wanted to clear it up with you.”
“Ah, the Internet. It’s the root of all evil, you know. Don’t believe everything you read, Norrie.”
I pressed on. “It said that Nathan Davidson, the doctor at the Cliffside Sanatorium, died in 1952.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Is that what it said?”
“Yes. But you said your dad was the doctor back then.”
“Yes, that’s what I said.”
“But that can’t be right,” I said, leaning against the closed door. “If the man who died here in 1952 was your dad, then you would have been born before then or shortly thereafter, I suppose. And that would make you a whole lot older than you are, by, like, two decades. Plus, you told me that your dad practiced well into old age before you took over.”
“Yup, that’s what I told you.”
He wasn’t really answering my questions. And his demeanor was so calm. So unruffled. He seemed completely unconcerned that I had just caught him in a lie. I started to get a very bad feeling in the pit of my stomach, and I couldn’t explain why—I really liked this man—but I was very glad I was so near the door. I put my hand on the knob.
