A History of Murder

by Lynn Bohart

  I lifted my eyebrows in surprise. “So, Lollie opened the drawer for you.”

  April shrugged. “Either her or one of our other resident ghosts.”

  “Regardless,” I said, as I glanced down at the piece of paper in my hands. “This is important and something we could actually use in the book without asking anyone’s permission.” I looked up at April again. “This could be a bombshell. I wish we could find Lollie’s family.”

  “Put Rudy on it,” April said with a sly smile. “Let’s face it; if anyone can find a needle in a haystack, it’s her.”

  “Good idea.”

  “By the way, I found one more thing you’ll want to see,” April said.

  She weaved her way through some furniture to a box in the corner and reached in to grab something. She turned to me, and I gasped.

  She had rolled out a vintage Wizard of Oz movie poster.

  “Oh my God,” I said, rushing forward to get a closer look. “I think that’s an original. I knew I should have come up here years ago to clean this room out.” I reached out and touched it with reverence.

  “Here, you take it.” April rolled it up again and handed it respectfully to me. “I have no doubt you’ll know what to do with it.”

  “Are you kidding? I’ll drop it off this afternoon to have it framed. I can’t wait. I know just where I’ll put it. Thank you, April.”

  I gave her a hug and left her shaking her head and chuckling as I went back downstairs to my apartment. I gave Rudy a call and explained about the letter from Lollie’s mother.

  “And we think Lollie came from Vancouver, B.C., right?” Rudy said.

  “Yes. I think her diary said the Point Grey area. And her sister’s name was Anna. I’m not sure where Point Grey is.”

  “I’ll find it and then drive up there in the next day or so and see what I can find out.”

  “How would you even know where to start once you get there?” I asked.

  “We have two last names – Gates and Bourbonaise. I’ll start with the local papers to see if Lollie Gates was ever reported missing. And then go to the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. If the family is still around, I’ll find them. Give me a few days, though,” she said.

  “Wow, you’re in the groove, aren’t you?”

  I heard her chuckle. “Yep, this is what I used to do, Julia. I’ll let you know if I find anything. What will you and the princess be doing?”

  “Blair and I are going up to Camano Island tomorrow to talk to Emily Foster and maybe the judge himself,” I replied.

  “Is Emily the girl who went to a mental institution?”

  “That’s the one,” I said more lightly than I felt. “Although she won’t be a girl anymore.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Rudy said. “Just remind Blair to be on her best behavior.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you don’t want to tick someone like that off.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The Puget Sound is peppered with off-shore islands, which makes living the island dream a reality for many people. Camano Island sits off the coast about 70-minutes north of Mercer Island. Thanks to a phone call from Charlotte Rowe, Emily Foster had agreed to see us, albeit reluctantly.

  We hit the road in Blair’s Porsche, feeling excited at the prospect that we might learn something of value about Judge Foster. Maybe even have the opportunity to meet him. Of all the people who had lived on the property, he was the most well-known and the one most likely to grab people’s interest in the book.

  “For the first time, I know a little of what Rudy used to feel like when she was on a story,” I said, as we sped north on Interstate 5. “You should have heard her yesterday when I told her about that letter we found in the attic.”

  “Who’d have thought there would be so much intrigue to your property?” Blair said.

  “I suppose that’s true of a lot of places that have been around this long. After all, babies are born, people marry, people die, they commit suicide…”

  “They kill each other,” Blair said with a sideways glance at me.

  “That too, I guess. Why is it that we seem to keep falling into the middle of a murder situation?”

  “That’s easy,” she said. “You’re a magnet.”

  “Moi?”

  “Yes. It’s like you have little bug antennae on your head that reach out and find someone who wants to kill someone else,” she said, using her right hand to serve as makeshift antennae.

  “Not true at all,” I said with a lift to my chin. “You guys are as much to blame on this one as I am. After all, it was Rudy who suggested the book.”

  “But let’s not forget where the hidden room was found. Your property,” Blair said.

  “Touché. Speaking of the book, I wish Doe didn’t have to work so much. She’s missing out on all the fun.”

  “That woman is all work and no play, as they say,” Blair said.

  “She just said something like that to me recently, and how she doesn’t have hobbies or other interests like I do. Did you know she bought a gun?”

  “Yeah, she told me,” Blair said. “That’s not so weird. I know several women who have guns, and they know how to use them.”

  “Doe told me she bought it for protection since she lives alone. I think the murder investigations we’ve been involved with have spooked her.”

  “You can’t blame her,” Blair said. “It reminds you that the world isn’t always such a nice place.”

  “Yes, but now she’s taken a firearms class and has been going to the shooting range just for fun.”

  “Good for her,” Blair said with appreciation. “I’ve always thought I’d like to learn to shoot.”

  I glanced over at Blair and contemplated her with a gun.

  Blair lacked the natural danger sensors most other people are born with. In fact, back in December, she led two killers on a dangerous, high-speed chase without a second thought, actually driving through the showroom windows of her husband’s auto dealership in order to leave them behind. And in February, when we ID’d the guy who broke into the inn and stole Ahab, she barged into his apartment on a whim and engaged him in battle with a golf umbrella. The thought of Blair with a gun brought a funny feeling to my stomach.

  “I think you should stick to cars,” I said. “Cars can be your thing, and guns can be Doe’s.”

  She snuck a peek at me and those blue eyes twinkled. “You’re sooooo transparent.”

  I shrugged. “I just appreciate being alive.”

  We continued to chat until we reached exit 212, which took us through the small City of Stanwood to the Camano Gateway Bridge; the only way on or off the island. Then we breezed through the downtown area and into the countryside.

  My GPS guided us across the northern tip of the island on winding roads to the west coast, where we turned onto Marianna Road and followed a barbed wire fence for almost a half mile until we found a metal gate, surrounded by a claustrophobic forest of trees and undergrowth. A small brass plaque set into a brick framework to the gate bore the Foster name. Blair pushed the button on an intercom box that looked ready to fall off its pole and waited. A static noise arose, and then a voice said,” Yes?”

  “Ms. Foster, I’m Julia Applegate,” I called out, leaning across Blair. “Ms. Rowe called you.”

  “Oh, yes. You’re writing a book.”

  “Yes. About the St. Claire Inn.”

  “Um…okay. Come in.”

  There was an electronic click, and the gate began to open slowly inwards. We pulled onto a narrow gravel road that wound its way through a tunnel of overhanging trees. To the right and left was a tangle of bushes and vines.

  “Wow,” Blair said, glancing out the window. “Talk about privacy. It’s like living in the middle of a forest. I’d hate to get lost in there.”

  The road continued for a quarter mile and opened up into a circular gravel drive in front of a sagging, squared-off Victorian-style building, complete with a widow’s walk and peeling b
lue/gray paint.

  “Jeez,” I exclaimed, peering through the front window of the car. “What a monstrosity.”

  Blair turned off the engine. We both paused a moment, staring at the dilapidated mansion with its dark, navy blue trim.

  “It must have been worth some money at one time,” Blair said. “But not now.”

  “I would have thought the judge would have done pretty well for himself over the years.”

  “But who knows where all the money went,” Blair said. “This place can’t be cheap to keep up. Let’s go see what we can find out from his daughter and then get out of here. I already don’t like it.”

  As I stepped out of the car, a movement on the second floor caught my attention. I glanced up to see a curtain at one of the front windows drop back into place.

  “Someone was watching us,” I said, nodding toward the upstairs window.

  Blair followed my gaze. “This place gives me the creeps.”

  We crossed the gravel drive and climbed the rickety stairs to the front door, passing several old ceramic pots housing long-dead plants. I raised the knocker and knocked twice. We waited for just a minute before a lock clicked. The door opened an inch or two. An eyeball appeared at the crack.

  “You’re Mrs. Applegate?” a voice asked.

  I tried to focus on the eyeball. “Yes. This is my friend, Blair Wentworth. We just need a few minutes of your time.”

  The eyeball blinked. And then the door opened further. A woman in her late fifties or early sixties appeared. She was dressed in a baggy denim jumper and a dark blue, long-sleeved blouse. She had intense brown eyes and long, dark frizzy hair flecked with gray that looked like it was at war with itself. She wore it clipped back at the sides, I presumed as a way to control it, but tufts of it stuck out in places, making it appear as if she’d just walked through a wind storm.

  “Please, come in,” she said. She took a gulp of air, as if she were out of breath. “We don’t get many visitors anymore.”

  Not a surprise, I thought, glancing around.

  We followed her into a sitting room that was decorated in early shabby, but not-so chic. The room was dark and the air stale, with an overlay of something sour. I felt my throat constrict.

  “Please sit down,” she said, gesturing to a worn and lumpy sofa.

  Blair stared at the sofa as if she was afraid it might swallow her up. I lowered myself onto one end of it, prompting her to do the same. But she sat as far forward as she could, probably to make as little contact with the stained upholstery as possible. Emily Foster sat in a chair facing us. As I glanced around the room, I spied a cobweb spun between the curtains that hung haphazardly on one window.

  “So what would the ex-wife of the governor want with me?”

  I was startled at the reference, but then thought that Charlotte Rowe must have mentioned my pedigree when she called.

  “I…uh, well, our book club is doing some research on the history of the bed and breakfast I own,” I said. “We hope it will make a good book.”

  “And then you’ll sell the book?”

  Emily had very round eyes that didn’t seem to blink. She stared at me curiously, like a small child might stare at a science project. Her head was tilted to one side.

  “We might sell it. We haven’t decided. But we’ve created a timeline from back when there was a hotel on the property in the early 1900s.”

  She sat quietly, continuing to watch me through a long, awkward silence. At one point, she seemed to lose focus, as if she’d had another thought. Then her eyes refocused on me again. When she didn’t say anything, I added, “And we came across the fact that your family lived there at one time.”

  There was another long silence. She sat so motionless that I wondered if someone had pulled her plug. And she still hadn’t blinked. It was unnerving.

  “You did live there, didn’t you?” Blair asked her finally.

  Her head swiveled toward Blair, and she seemed to actually notice Blair for the first time. She took in the blond hair and shapely figure, and the corners of her mouth turned down.

  “Yes, of course,” she replied tersely. She returned her gaze to me. “But I was very young. You may want to speak with my brother, Mansfield.”

  “We’ll do that,” I said. “But we’d love to get your perspective.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “For instance, do you have fond memories of living there?” I asked.

  “No.”

  That took me back. I glanced at Blair. This wasn’t going as well as I’d hoped. Emily exuded a peculiar energy and seemed to vacillate between tolerance and mild hostility.

  “Really? Why not?” I asked.

  “It was very isolated. My father was gone a lot.”

  “I see. That would have been tough. Especially for a young girl. But you must have had friends,” I said, thinking everyone had friends.

  “No,” she replied. “My father didn’t like strangers hanging around.”

  “But certainly your mother had friends. Maybe your parents entertained? After all, your father was quite well-known, even back then.”

  Her brows clenched. “No. I don’t remember any parties. We just lived there.”

  “You must have had birthday parties,” I said. “Do any of those stand out?”

  “No.”

  I felt a kinship to dentists. Pulling teeth had to be easier than this.

  “Well, what about you and your siblings? You must have had games that you played.”

  She paused and began to use one hand to pull an errant strand of hair behind her ear, while a frown turned down the corners of her mouth. “I don’t like games. I don’t want to talk about games.”

  “Uh, okay. Did you go out in the barn much?”

  She stiffened, as if starch had suddenly hardened in her veins.

  “The barn is still there?” she said with a single blink.

  “Yes,” I replied. “When my husband and I bought the property in 2003, we renovated the ground floor of the barn. The front of it is now a retail bakery. We use the back to store and refinish antiques we sell at the inn.”

  “So you’ve remodeled it,” she said, her eyes glinting.

  “Just the ground floor.”

  “I see.”

  She began to twist her fingers together, and once again her head tilted to one side. This time, it appeared as if she was listening to someone for a moment. Then she was back.

  “What else?” she asked.

  “Um…so, as a kid, you must have at least played out in the barn,” I said again.

  I stopped speaking and glanced at Blair, who was being unusually quiet. Her pretty face was a mask as she studied Emily.

  “Sometimes,” she said. “Mansfield liked to play games out there.” She used her right hand to pull her hair behind her ear again. I noticed that her fingernails were bitten down to the quick.

  “It might be interesting to know what kind of games for the book.”

  Her head snapped up. “No. They weren’t nice games. I told you, I don’t like games. He would lock me in a room until I could answer his stupid riddles.”

  Her entire body had begun to vibrate, and I realized I needed to dial things back. “I’m sorry. Of course, we wouldn’t mention that.” I wondered if the room her big brother locked her up in was the one in the attic.

  “Games. Games. Games,” she said. “Mansfield loves his stupid games. But I don’t. I don’t like to play his stupid games.” She snuck a glance at Blair and her lips drew into a sneer.

  “We don’t have to talk about Mansfield’s games,” I said. God, this woman was infuriating. Was she hiding something or just as dense as a lump of clay?

  “We’ve heard someone died out there,” Blair said quietly. I flinched, but Emily froze and seemed to hold her breath, her gaze still resting on me. “Back when it was a brothel,” Blair added. “We were told one of the prostitutes was killed out there.”

  Emily released a quiet sigh and see
med to relax. She let her gaze drop and said, “I didn’t know that. That’s too bad.”

  “Too be honest, we think it’s haunted,” I said. “Had you ever heard that?”

  She seemed to consider the question about ghosts a moment and then took a deep breath. “Yes. The neighbor kids talked about it. And I used to hear whispering in the attic.”

  Finally! A break.

  “We’ve heard whispering, too,” I said.

  She glanced up. “Is it that woman who was killed? Is she the one who whispers?”

  “We don’t know. But anyone who goes up into the barn attic gets a weird feeling. And several of us have heard the whispering.”

  A brief smile played across her lips. “Would you like something to drink?” She stood up and left the room before we could reply.

  “What the…?” I said, watching her disappear.

  Blair jumped up and began perusing books thrown into a bookcase in the corner. I came up behind her. “Okay, she’s actually spooky.”

  “I agree. But look at some of these books.” Blair’s finger was running along some titles. “Abnormal psychology. The Tragic Brain. What’s Normal or Abnormal? Family Deviations. What is all of this?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m sending my clothes to the cleaners as soon as I get home,” I said, taking a whiff of my blouse. “I’m not sure I’ll ever get the smell out.”

  We heard a door close and footsteps. I hurried back to my seat, but Blair stayed where she was. A moment later, Emily appeared with two glasses of ice water. She handed one off to me and kept the other one for herself, taking a long drink. The affront to Blair was obvious and very curious. Emily took her seat again, casting a glance toward Blair and the books right behind her.

  “What else can I tell you, Julia? May I call you Julia?” she asked, returning her gaze to me.

  “Yes, of course. Um…what was life like back then on Mercer Island?” I asked, taking a sip of water. It tasted like iron, and I put it on the dusty coffee table in front of me.

  She put her own glass on a side table and folded her hands in her lap. “Quiet. My father was gone most of the time, as I said. He was a very busy man.”