A History of Murder

by Lynn Bohart

  “Damn,” I said, exhaling.

  Blair moved over to the wall and flicked on the overhead bulb. The room was flooded with a dim, but otherwise welcoming, light.

  “Let’s look around,” I said. I turned off the flashlight.

  We wandered around the room, pushing boxes and furniture aside to make sure no one was hiding. We even stepped into the hidden room. The small door that led under the roofline was closed and nothing was amiss.

  “So are we all in agreement?” Blair said. April and I turned to her. “Ghosts?”

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “But why? Why would a ghost show up here in the attic with a candle, when it’s never done that before? At least not as long as we’ve lived here.”

  “Because there’s still a story to be told, and now we’re paying attention,” April said.

  “Do you hear the voices again?” I asked her.

  “No,” she said. Her eyes shifted, as if she were listening to something. “In fact, it’s eerily quiet.”

  “C’mon,” Blair said. “Let’s go back. This place gives me the creeps.”

  We returned to the ground floor and locked the door before returning to the front of the building.

  “I wonder if it has anything to do with the baby in the diaper bag,” I said, glancing back up to the second floor.

  “Why would it?” Blair asked. “We’ve already found it.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know. There’s got to be a reason.”

  “Look!” April exclaimed, pointing to the upstairs window again.

  The candle flicker was back. I whirled around and raced back inside. Before I could make it all the way into the room, however, the light went out again, leaving me breathless and frustrated in the doorway.

  “So?” Blair asked, coming up behind me.

  “It went out again.”

  I stepped into the room and flicked on the overhead light. “No one’s here,” I said, glancing around.

  Then something I saw made me gasp.

  “What is it?” April asked.

  I pointed to where the candlestick had been moved to the other side of the room.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Dreams are like elusive butterflies. They flit from one scene to another with sometimes only a random connection or familiarity between them. And yet when you’re in a particular dream, it seems to make perfect sense.

  Once I fell asleep that night, I was treated to a parade of visual images: prostitutes selling themselves to men with big cigars; entire nurseries of babies struggling to get out of locked rooms; pregnant women running from sweaty men with big hands; and ghosts leaving candles to burn down the room they had been meant to illuminate.

  So it was no surprise that I greeted the next day bleary-eyed and a little cranky. Blair had left early for her Pilates class and to run some errands, so I went to the kitchen to help April with breakfast. I was standing at the counter in the breakfast room rubbing my eyes, when old Mrs. Welch sidled up to me and whispered in a harsh voice.

  “I hope you didn’t mean that you saw a mouse spider last night, because mouse spiders are indigenous to Australia and extremely venomous.”

  Inwardly I cringed. Dammit! I knew she’d go look it up. “Uh…no. It was just a little mouse, like I said. Not a spider.”

  “I certainly hope so. I wouldn’t want to put the children in danger.”

  I turned to admonish her for such a careless remark, but her expression shut me down. I was sure that if she could have shot darts from her eyes, I would have been impaled like a pin-cushion.

  “No, of course not,” I said. “My mother always called them spider mice…because, uh, you know, they’re so small. That’s all. I learned it from her.” I silently hoped my mother wasn’t listening from the nether-world. If she was, I knew she would take it out on me the next time she called.

  The elder Mrs. Welch pressed her thin lips into a straight line and stomped over to a table where her husband sat toying with an English muffin. “Well, I took care of that,” she said.

  I exhaled in relief. Maybe that would be my only encounter with her that day. I couldn’t help but glance through the back windows to the barn, thinking about the strange occurrence the night before. I wondered what our snooty guest would think of that. She was already getting woken up at night, presumably by one of the ghosts knocking on her door. Would that I could mobilize all of them to teach her a lesson.

  The morning progressed normally. The Welches left after breakfast for some sightseeing. April had shrugged off the candle-wielding ghost from the night before and was working in the bakery as usual. On the other hand, I kept checking the dormer windows in the second story of the barn, as if I might see the candlelight again in broad daylight.

  Rudy called just before lunch to tell me she’d located the Kettle sisters’ niece, Grace Rolston, and had made an appointment to see her. We decided to drive to Queen Anne that afternoon. But first, Blair returned with news.

  “I stopped by the senior center,” she said, catching me in the kitchen of my apartment. “They hold their craft class today. A couple of their regulars have lived on the island forever, so I thought I’d give them a try. And I learned something interesting.”

  I looked up from the turkey sandwiches I was making. “What’s that?”

  “I found Ruthie Crenshaw,” she announced. “The girl who had the baby out of wedlock.”

  “Really?” I said, putting the plates on the table. “Does she still live here?”

  “Yes, down by the bridge. She’s married to a doctor.” Blair paused with an expectant look.

  “You want to go see her,” I said matter-of-factly.

  “Don’t you?”

  “Yeah. But I can’t. Rudy just called. She found the Kettle sisters’ niece and we decided to go see her this afternoon. Why don’t you go see Ruthie alone? You know the drill. We want pictures, any unusual stories, and if you can slip it in, what happened to her baby?”

  “That’s going to be awkward,” Blair said.

  “Not really. We’re researching the property and the people who lived here at one time. I think it’s pretty natural that we might have run across the fact that she was pregnant. Just keep it casual and if she’s concerned, we won’t use any of it in the book. We’re just trying to fill in some blanks.”

  ÷

  Grace Ferrar Rolston, niece of Pettie and Pearl Kettle, lived in a big Victorian on Queen Anne Hill. It was painted a pale pink with a deep raspberry trim and had a broad front porch and steep steps leading up to the front door.

  We were greeted by a slim, attractive woman in her early to mid-forties, dressed in jeans and a short-sleeved cotton blouse. She was tall like her grand-aunts, but had brown hair and hazel eyes.

  “It’s so nice to meet you,” she said, leading us into a sitting room. “Can I get you anything to drink?’

  “No, thank you,” Rudy said. “We don’t want to take up much of your time.”

  We were interrupted by some loud banging, which made us all turn toward the back of the house.

  “I’m sorry about that. We’re gutting our master bedroom upstairs and combining it with a second bedroom to enlarge it.”

  “Your home is lovely,” I said, looking around at a plethora of quality and expensive antiques that filled the room.

  “Thank you. I’ve lived here my entire life – well, except for the years I was away at college. My aunts moved in after my mother died. My father was gone a lot, so they really raised me.”

  “Is your father still alive?” Rudy asked as we followed her into a beautiful sitting room.

  The antique furniture was exquisite and once again, I felt myself salivate.

  “Yes, but he and his new wife live in Florida now,” Grace said. “Please sit down,” she said, gesturing to the sofa. “So, I understand you’re writing a book about the St. Claire Inn. I visited my aunts a couple of times there, but of course I was very young, so I don’t remember much.”

  “We
were wondering if you had any photos from back then,” I said. “We’d like to show how the building might have changed over the years.”

  “I do,” she said, grabbing a photo album from the table next to her. “Since I knew you were coming, I found this old album in Aunt Pettie’s cedar chest. It has some great pictures.” She opened the book and turned it around for us. “For instance, here’s a photo of Aunt Pettie and Miss LaFontaine.”

  She pointed to an old color photo of a tall, angular woman standing next to a heavyset woman in a blue flowered caftan.

  “This is Miss LaFontaine,” she said.

  The woman in the photo had several thick chains dangling around her neck. When I noticed she was also wearing a large pendant with an eye in the middle of it, I nearly laughed out loud.

  “She was a psychic they hired to hold séances out there,” Mrs. Rolston said, sitting back. “You won’t believe this, but my aunts both believed in ghosts. They claimed that they saw a woman dressed in a nightgown come down the stairs and walk through a wall.”

  “Really?” Rudy said with false surprise.

  I shot her a warning glance.

  “Oh, yes,” Mrs. Rolston said. “They reported all sorts of unusual activity. They even said that they’d seen Harry Houdini there.”

  Well, that was news to me.

  “Houdini?” Rudy said with suspicion.

  “According to Aunt Pearl, they were in the parlor having tea one night and suddenly there was a man sitting in the chair next to the fire, shuffling a deck of cards.”

  “And they knew it was Harry Houdini?” Rudy asked.

  “I guess so. They had pictures of him and said it looked just like him. I don’t have it anymore, but I guess they found an old newspaper article with a photo of Houdini visiting the hotel. That was long before the St. Claires owned the property, of course.”

  “Did they ever see him again?” I asked. “I mean, Houdini?”

  “Once. Or at least they thought it was him. Aunt Pettie said they saw someone out in the attic of the barn, walking around with a candle one night.”

  My heart clenched at the mention of the candle. I didn’t for one moment think our visitor the night before had been Harry Houdini, but apparently the candle-carrying ghost had been doing this for a while.

  Mrs. Rolston pulled the photo album back and flipped through a couple of pages. Meanwhile, I glanced at Rudy, who raised her eyebrows and gave me a brief smirk. She was enjoying this.

  “Here’s a picture of one of the séances,” Mrs. Rolston said, turning the book towards us.

  A group of six people were sitting around an octagonal table in what looked like the attic of the barn. Miss LaFontaine was at one end, facing the camera, her long, frizzy hair catching the light.

  “Were any of the séances successful?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

  “No,” Mrs. Rolston admitted. “But I understand Miss LaFontaine became ill at this one. She had to excuse herself.”

  I remembered what Ben and Goldie had said about the psychic getting a migraine, just like April had. My gaze drifted back to the picture, and I focused on the details.

  Suddenly, it felt like my heart was too big for my chest. I leaned in to peer more closely at the group of believers.

  Behind Miss LaFontaine was the hazy image of a young girl I’d seen in pictures at the inn. She had on a calf-length nightgown, and long, dark hair with wide-set, dark eyes.

  Chloe!

  Mrs. Rolston and Rudy were talking about the séances and ignoring me. I picked up the book and drew it towards me, fascinated.

  Chloe hadn’t been in the picture moments before. I was sure of that. But I also felt sure that if I offered the picture to my companions, her image would disappear. She meant this moment for me alone.

  I studied Chloe’s image, realizing that her attention wasn’t focused on Miss LaFontaine, but on someone else in the photo. She was pointing a finger at a familiar-looking young man standing behind one of the guests at the table.

  As soon as I realized what she was doing, her image faded.

  I inhaled sharply.

  “What?” Rudy asked, turning to me.

  I glanced up. “Huh? Oh, nothing.” I turned to Mrs. Rolston. “Any chance we could take this picture and use it in our book? I’ll make sure you get it back.”

  “Certainly,” she said, reaching for the book and carefully removing the photo. She handed it to me. “You know, my aunts were heartbroken when they had to leave Mercer Island.”

  “We understood they came to take care of you,” Rudy said.

  “That’s partly true,” she said wistfully. “But they were also broke. They’d sunk everything they had into that property. That’s one of the reasons they started having the séances. They hoped the séances would become popular. When they didn’t, my aunts went further into debt. Finally, the one thing of value they still owned was stolen and they were forced to sell.”

  “What was that?” I asked, my body still humming from the ghostly encounter with Chloe.

  “A unique diamond and pearl necklace their mother left them.” She flipped pages again. “Here’s a picture of it.”

  We both glanced down at the multi-tiered, diamond necklace draped around Aunt Pearl’s neck. I stared at it in awe.

  I’d seen that necklace recently -- draped around the neck of Frank Miller’s wife!

  “How was it stolen?” Rudy asked.

  “They had a young man working there as caretaker, and they caught him going through the drawers in their bedroom one day. Of course, he lied and said he was just looking for something, so they fired him. It wasn’t until he was gone that they realized the necklace was also gone.”

  “And they couldn’t have him arrested?” I asked.

  “They reported it to the police, but he disappeared. No one could find him. And shortly after that, they came to live here.”

  “Could we tell their story in the book?” I asked her, tearing my gaze away from the necklace. “The séances, Houdini, and the necklace?” She nodded, and I added, “Any chance we could also show this picture?”

  She removed the second picture and handed it over. “I think my aunts would be very pleased.” She stood up. “Now, I was wondering if you’d like to see the rest of the house. I googled the St. Claire Inn and noticed that you sell antiques. Nothing is for sale here, but we have quite a collection.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  “Okay, what gives?” Rudy asked as soon as we were back in the car. “What was going on with that first picture you got Mrs. Rolston to give you? You clearly saw something you didn’t want to discuss.”

  “It was Chloe. She was in that picture.”

  Rudy’s face crinkled in confusion. “What? I didn’t see her in that picture.”

  “I know. One minute she wasn’t there, and the next minute she was. That’s when I picked up the book. And guess what?” Rudy shot me a curious glance as she turned a corner. “She was pointing directly at a young man in the picture.”

  “Yeah, there was a guy standing in the background. So what?”

  “I know that man.” I reached into my purse and removed the picture. “This guy in the background is a young Frank Miller,” I said, staring at the photo again.

  “Frank Miller? You mean the guy from the bar in Puyallup? Gramley Miller’s grandson?”

  “That’s the one. I’d recognize that bowling ball head of his anywhere. But I’ve also seen that necklace Mrs. Rolston showed us.”

  “Do tell,” she said.

  “He has a picture of him and his wife in his office. The necklace is draped around his wife’s neck in the picture. And it was the moment he saw me holding the picture that he kicked us out.”

  Rudy inhaled in surprise. “He stole the necklace.”

  “He must have been the caretaker, so yeah, I’d bet my life on it.”

  ÷

  When we arrived back at the inn, we found Blair and April at the front desk.

&nbs
p; “We have news,” I blurted. “C’mon. Let’s go in here.”

  We went into the breakfast room and sat down. We told them all about the Kettle sisters, the séances, the photos, the stolen necklace, and then Chloe and Frank Miller. I removed the two photos from my purse. Blair took them first.

  “You’re right. This is the same necklace from the picture in Miller’s office,” she said.

  I’d counted on Blair’s confirmation. She had a photographic memory, especially for things like expensive jewelry.

  “And that’s a young Frank Miller?” April asked, pointing to the picture of the séance.

  Blair peered at the photo. “Oh, yeah. That’s him. Beady eyes and all. I bet that’s why he kicked us out of there so quickly. You were holding the picture of the necklace he stole, and we were there asking questions about the inn.”

  I sat back. “So, he worked here, and yet he tried to play dumb with us.”

  Blair sat back, too. “Now what?”

  “I could tell David. Maybe they could arrest him for theft,” I said.

  “He could just say he found it at a garage sale,” April said.

  “Even with the photo of him at the séance?” Blair asked.

  “Yeah,” Rudy agreed. “That wouldn’t be enough proof. And there’s probably a statute of limitations on things like that, anyway.”

  “But Mrs. Rolston said he worked there, and they caught him going through their house, looking for stuff. He disappeared and the necklace disappeared,” I said.

  “Yes, but that’s still not enough to arrest him,” Rudy replied. “Besides, the sisters are gone now.”

  Blair sat back with a huff. “Bummer. Well, I have news, too. I visited with Ruthie Crenshaw.”

  That got everyone’s attention.

  “What did you learn?” Rudy asked.

  “She did have a baby. But she gave it up for adoption, just like she’d implied in her diary. She’d like to have her diary back, by-the-way. But she did give us permission to tell her story. She and her daughter have re-connected, so it’s no secret.”