Johanna's Secret

by Maya Northen Augelli

  “Sorry, I’m thinking.” “Thinking what?” Grace looks curious. “Well, the possibility of them being family. We’re assuming that both of Julienne’s parents are French and living in France based on the name and the fact that she is from Provence, but that could just be her heritage. Maybe one or both of her parents were living in England. It said she went to Greenwich to work for Eleanor at age 16, and we assumed she was going to work for a complete stranger. Truly, we know absolutely nothing about her before 1923.” I can see Grace nodding. “That’s a very good point. Eleanor Grafton could have been anyone, and so could her parents. And she herself for that matter. It still seems strange that she left her previous job so suddenly and there’s absolutely no information about that.”

  I look up to see Greg standing in front of us with our drinks. “Are you talking about that family that disappeared? Such a sad story.” He smiles sheepishly, acknowledging that he’d been listening to our conversation. “Sorry, I’m kind of fascinated by mysteries like that. In a macabre sort of way.” “You said sad. Do you think it was something tragic? Or do you mean the parents?” Greg shakes his head, “Not the parents. At least not the father. My grandfather always said something was off about him, and grandpa was a great judge of character.” “Your grandfather knew them?” I feel almost star-struck. This family had somehow gained an almost immortal status in my head. “Grandpa was a rookie on the police force when James Sheffield and his wife vanished. And when all of that happened to the au pair and the girls. He didn’t think the marriage was as ‘Leave it to Beaver’ as Sheffield let on.” “I was just reading a book on unsolved local mysteries that said Johanna seemed depressed after having the youngest and never quite got back to her old self.” “From what grandpa said, her depression wasn’t a result of having Scarlett. After Scarlett, she was pregnant again almost immediately, but she had a miscarriage about three months in. Grandpa overheard him talking with Bower - a fellow officer. They didn’t know he’d overheard, and he knew well enough never to mention it to Sheffield. They didn’t pay him any mind, being a rookie and all, so he was able to eavesdrop here and there.” Greg smiles, obviously proud of his grandfather’s cunning. “She lost her fourth child. No wonder she looks so melancholy in those pictures,” I say quietly, more to myself than the others.

  “To his credit, grandpa said Sheffield seemed shaken by the miscarriage. He overheard him saying that he didn’t know what to do about the baby, and that he thought it might kill Johanna. As much as he didn’t like the guy, grandpa did feel bad for him when that happened. And Johanna. He never said anything, but I think he had a secret soft spot for her. His eyes brightened when he talked about her.” “Did he ever say anything about Julienne, the au pair?” “A lot. He thought that any guy that came in contact with her seemed smitten.” “Hmm, jealousy,” Grace wonders out loud. “So you think a jealous admirer might have set the fire?” I ask them. “It’s possible,” Grace admits. “Which could point to Sharpe. But I just don’t know.” “Unless,” I pondered, “It was Edward Sharpe they were jealous of.” “I don’t think it was Sharpe. Who set the fire I mean. Unless he put on a stellar performance,” Greg chimes in. It was the first time he’d mentioned Sharpe. “What do you mean?” I ask, turning to him. “Grandpa was one of the few police officers who seemed to urgently want to get to the bottom of things. When we was done with his shift, he’d stop in and check on Julienne and the girls after the parents disappeared. Sometimes Sharpe would be there, comforting her. The girls seemed to like him. In fact, he said that the oldest, her name is escaping me at the moment, had a bit of a childhood crush on him. At least that’s how it seemed to my grandpa.”

  “He never was able to convince the other officers to take a closer look at things? The arsonist could still have been out there, a danger to others. We’re assuming it was all connected, but what if someone with a grudge against wealthy homeowners was setting fire to their property or something?” I realize I sounded a bit accusatory, and soften my voice. “It just baffles me that the police just didn’t care. Other than your grandfather, I mean.” “No offense taken. I agree. Grandpa was a rookie and needed the job. They didn’t push the investigation, and he didn’t want to challenge them. He was maybe twenty one, twenty two years old. Bad things can happen when the police are not on your side. They seemed to chalk it up to a jealous guy or jilted lover and didn’t consider it a threat to the community at large. Or at least that’s the story they gave when people asked.” “You don’t sound convinced,” Grace chimes in. “Even if he wasn’t a threat to the community, wasn’t he a threat to Julienne? I guess he could have been so keen to get away that he didn’t wait around to find out she’d survived.” “Which would eliminate Sharpe as a suspect,” Grace points out. “The two sides of the story don’t add up. Grandpa never believed that either.”

  Our food arrives and, for a few minutes, we abandon our talk of murder and mayhem and enjoy our meal. Funny, I think, that I come to dinner to get my head out of everything, and meet a man whose grandfather personally knew all the major players. At least all that we currently know about, anyway.

  I can’t shake the feeling that there is something major - besides the identity of the arsonist - that we’re missing. I have the unnerving suspicion that everything we’ve been discussing only brushes the surface of what really happened that night. We’ve barely brainstormed on the actual disappearance of the entire family - what could have happened, where could they have gone if they’d been alive, if it was by force or by choice. I wonder. Is it something right under our noses, that we’re completely missing? Was there some hidden lover that we’ve not yet discovered? That would explain Julienne’s sad, lost eyes in the photographs. Presumably, a family member would have taken the picture. Scarlett would have been too young, but it could have been anyone else. Maybe they wanted a photo to send back home to her family in France, or the previous employer in England. Maybe she planned to give it to a sweetheart, whoever that was. Or the girls could have been playing with the camera, as little kids do, and she offered to be the subject to entertain them. It’s so difficult to weave together which pieces are important and which are just facts of daily life, but her look in that photo saddened me so much that I can’t get it out of my head. I’ll bring the photos to the library, I think, to look at under magnification, in case there are some clues in the photo itself. Plus, the library may have some more photos of the family. A sudden thought occurs to me.

  “Greg, not to be nosy, but would your grandfather have kept any old photos that might have Mr. Sheffield or his family in them?” “You know, he did. In fact, he conducted his own unofficial investigation and kept a box with everything that he collected. Kind of like it sounds like you two are doing,” he grins. “I think he truly thought that one day the case might be reopened, when the police force turned over, or when somebody showed up that may have been one of the missing family members. But I’m also not sure he thought he’d live to see the day.” He pauses. “He passed four years ago.” “I’m sorry to hear. It sounds like you guys were close.” “We were,” he agrees softly, “but he lived to a hale and hearty 94 years old, and I think in the end he was just ready to be reunited with my grandma. He’d outlived her by 15 years. Anyway, I’d be happy to show you the box of the things he collected if you liked.” “Absolutely!” I reply, fearing that I had sounded a bit too eager.

  When Greg walks away to help another customer, Grace turns to me and gives me a smile that says she’s up to no good. “What?” I ask “You realize it’s more than just showing you a box of his grandfather’s stuff, right?” “Showing me?” I puzzle. “He’s showing us.” I emphasize the last word. “I doubt it. He directed the invitation at you. I can come along if you’d like, but I don’t think he’d care either way. In fact, I think he’d probably be disappointed.” Her mischievous smile tells me that she’s teasing, not hurt. “Why do you say that? And, to answer your question, it is just showing me his grandfather’
s things.” “Suit yourself,”she laughs “And I say it because I’ve known Greg for years and I can’t ever remember him inviting me over, other than for a massive birthday party once or twice when he invited our entire elementary school class. He was always very nice, but never paid nearly the attention to me as he is to you. He’s been here all night, trying to include himself in this conversation. Plus,” she adds, “when he’s not here in front of us, he’s watching you.” Now it’s my turn to raise my eyebrows. “Not in the creepy, stalking kind of way. In the ‘she seems interesting and pretty and I’d like to get to know her’ sort of way.” I’m dubious. I don’t think myself particularly pretty in a way that makes guys take notice. I may be interesting to a select few, those who are attracted to bookwormish women fascinated by murder mysteries and historical fiction. Then again, he called me intriguing, and he certainly has an interest in history. “He’s paying attention because we’re talking about something that involved his grandfather, and because I live in the house where it happened. It’s not everyday someone comes in here talking about the disappearance of people that his grandfather knew. I mean, his grandfather did his own investigation and kept a box of things he found. It’s obviously a topic close to his heart.”

  Grace considers this for a second. Looking at her long, curly red hair and deep blue eyes, I think that if the invitation really is for more than it appears, it is most certainly aimed at her, despite what she said. Grace is the type of woman that turns heads. She isn’t tall, or particularly thin, but she has the ideal hourglass figure and carries herself with a confidence I only wish I could muster. She is every inch female, and yet she can sit back and talk whiskey and football better than any guy in the room. She’s the kind of woman that other women want to hate, except that she is so kind and seemingly unaware of her power over men that you can’t help but like her. Besides, her love of history and mystery endeared her to me in the first hour we’d met.

  “Greg’s a good guy,” she says, turning to me and lowering her voice. “Always has been from what I’ve known. I’m not saying he has any bad intentions or expectations. I just think you guys have some common interests and he finds you attractive, and it couldn’t hurt to be open to something more than a conspiratorial murder investigation.” “Murder? Is that what you think happened?” Grace shakes her head, amused. “That’s what you took away from that little speech?” I laugh at myself. “Sorry, you’re right. I’ll be open minded. We do seem to have some interests in common at least, and he’s not bad looking….” “That’s the spirit!”

  “What are you two giggling about?” Greg’s voice interrupts. “Just girl talk,” Grace thankfully recovers quickly, as I’m too embarrassed at being caught to speak. “Shopping, nails, who’s dating who?” Greg teases. Grace gives him a mock look of annoyance. “I was asking Hennie how she’s liking the town, who she’s met, if there is anyone she needed dirt on.” “And, is there anyone you need dirt on?” Greg teases. Put on the spot, I decide to play along. “Just you. You know, before I go into some dark attic with you to look at your grandfather’s findings.” My gamble pays off and I’m rewarded by Greg’s bright, wide smile. “So, what’s the verdict?” Still slightly unsure if he’s joking, flirting, or simply curious, I concede a partial truth. “Grace seems to think you’re not an axe murderer, so I guess I trust her judgement.” “I’ll tell you what. Have coffee with me tomorrow morning in a well-populated place, in the daylight, and I’ll tell you more about my grandfather’s hunches. If you decide for yourself that I’m not an axe murderer, then we’ll find a time for you to come to take a look at the attic.” “That sounds fair enough,” I agree, catching Grace’s quick wink out of the corner of my eye.

  That night, I get a restful sleep - unusual for me, who often tosses and turns replying the day’s events in my head. I awake to a text from Greg the next morning, which takes me slightly by surprise. We exchanged numbers last night, but I hadn’t expected to hear from so soon. As a psychologist, I am well aware of the ridiculous ‘waiting three days’ rule that some guys seem to think imperative . “Coffee at 10 AM? PS, sorry if I woke you. I just didn’t want you to think I’d forgotten.” I give myself a few minutes to wake up before replying. I don’t want to sound either dimwitted from being half asleep, or overly eager. “Sounds good. Where to?” “Well, I’d say I’d walk over and get you, but you’re still determining if I’m an axe murderer, so how about Java House on South Harbour?” “Haha, great, see you at 10.” I look at my clock. It’s 8:30 now, and South Harbour is probably twenty minute walk, judging by the address that Google gives me. That affords me plenty of time to get ready and look presentable enough.

  I feel butterflies in my stomach as I set off for Java House. I haven’t done anything even resembling a date in over five years. I keep telling myself that this is nothing, just chatting about a shared story that involved my temporary home and his grandfather, but I have to give in and accept that, whatever the reason, Greg asked to spend time with me. If Grace got an invitation to coffee this morning, I am quite sure she would have told me. It’s sunny out, and, from what I’ve learned, unseasonably warm for here. It makes the walk pleasant, easing my nerves a bit. Java House is towards the end of the main shopping and dining section of Harbour. I haven’t walked this far down the street yet, and I looked around and note some of the stores - an old record shop, a pharmacy, a barber shop. It is a less touristy, older section of town, but not without its own kind of charm. I wonder if Greg lives nearby.

  As I approach Java House, I see Greg sitting at a table by the window. He looks slightly different from last night, but in a good way. I study him for a moment. He isn’t particularly tall, but his shoulders are broad and muscular. His features, what I can see from his side profile, look softer than I remember. He catches me looking at him and smiles. No getting out of that one, I think. I decide it’s a smile I like, but one that I won’t let win me over just yet.

  I slide into the booth across from him. “Good morning. I got here early. Didn’t want to chance you thinking I backed out.” He seems particularly concerned that I may think he changed his mind, I notice. It’s the second time today he’s mentioned not cancelling on me. I wonder if he has a bad habit of doing just that, or if he’s been jaded by people cancelling on him. “I’m sorry I’m late.” I’m not really, but he seems so worried with punctuality that I don’t know what else to say. Plus I am still a bit tongue tied from him catching me looking through the window. Why am I so nervous? “You’re not late, you’re five minutes early.” “Oh, I guess I am,” I say looking at my watch. “Well never mind then,” I smile to let him know I’m teasing. Despite my uncharacteristic anxiousness, there seems to be an ease in his presence.

  We order scones and coffee and the conversation comes naturally. As we’re finishing our coffees, he broaches the subject of his grandfather. “I haven’t sorted through much, I’ll admit. When he died, I couldn’t deal with everything. I just boxed it all up and put it in the attic, so I’m not entirely sure what’s up there. I know he had photos and notes, though I haven’t read through them. You’re welcome to go through whatever you’d like. If you’d like help, I’d be happy to be of assistance,” he grins. “That would be great.” He’s clearly making an effort to be accommodating and helpful, and also to spend time with me. Despite my resolve to stay out of anything that might resemble a romance, I decide to be friendly and get to know him better, since he seems intent on it. “Would you like to head over when we’re done with coffee?” he asks. “Or should we have another cup so you can ruminate a little longer over whether or not I’m a murderer?” “I think I’m confident,” I joke, “But I wouldn’t mind a coffee refill first.”

  Suddenly it’s Greg who seemed flustered, though I’m not sure why. “If you have plans, though, we can just do it another time.” Have I said something wrong, or is he trying to back out of it? “Not at all. I only know three people in this town and one of them’s sitting in f
ront of me.” I hope once again that I don’t seem too eager. I am certainly excited to see what his grandfather collected, but I don’t want to give him the wrong impression. Truth be told, I am glad to have Greg there to help, and I had to admit that I’m enjoying his company. It’s been a while since I’ve had the chance to discuss history with a man on the level that I like to - at least a man under the age of sixty-five. Billy’s great, but it isn’t exactly the same.

  Greg’s house is modest, but charming. He tells me that it was built around 1892, and that his grandfather was the second person ever to own it. “So you’re the third?” “Yep. Lots of pressure.” There goes that grin again. “It looks like you’re doing a great job with it so far. Have you made a lot of renovations?” “Only a few. I’m just adequately handy.” I suspect he was being humble. The house looks like it had a good amount of work done to it recently. “Much better than I am,” I admit. He pulls down the attic door, and a stairway descends. “I’ll warn you, it’s a little musty up there.” “That’s ok, I actually love the musty attic smell. It reminds me of my grandparents’ house - all of the old books and photos. I feel like that smell of dust and mothballs is always hiding something curious.” Greg smiles. “I hope you’re right, in this case at least.” He insists I climb the stairs first, to stand behind me in case I slip. I step up into the attic and start looking around instinctively as he climbs up the stairs. “It might take me a moment to find it, sorry,” he apologizes as he gets to the top and steps into the attic next to me. “Feel free to look around. I don’t think there’s anything too incriminating.” Spying a box of old black and white candids, I pick up the album on top and start flipping through. “That’s my grandmother,” Greg says, turning towards me. “She died of breast cancer over 20 years ago. She was very sweet from what I remember, though I have to admit, that’s not much. My memories of her feel like they’re fading by the day.” He seems a little sad suddenly. “I know what you mean. I feel that way about my grandfather.” I want to ask more about his grandmother, and his family, but I don’t want to push. We only just met yesterday, and I can’t tell if he’s the type to share personal information easily. His grandfather’s collection is one thing - it’s items that pertained to a particular case. But his family history and his feelings about it are another thing entirely.