Anna Denning Mystery Series Box Set: Books 1–3

by Karin Kaufman

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry doesn’t cut it. The damage is done.” Anna downed what remained of her coffee and swiveled toward the window to get a look at the rain. She needed to get back up the Sparrow House drive before it attained the consistency of pea soup. “I have something for you,” she said, turning back. She pulled the pieces of the broken clip earring from her jeans pocket and placed them on the table in front of Alice. “Is this yours?”

  Alice took the pieces and dropped them into a zippered pocket on the front of her purse.

  “So it is.”

  “It is,” she said softly. “Thank you. The earrings were a gift from Matthew, but I left them behind in 1970. They belonged to his mother.”

  “How did you find them?”

  “Mitch found them for me. No one notices him in the house.”

  “So it was you in the garden the other night. You lost the earring then.”

  “I thought someone was watching me from the window.”

  “Were you staying with Mitch at the carriage house?”

  “I still am.”

  “I wish you would talk to the police about Lawrence—and Matthew. I can’t do it for you. You’re the one who saw Matthew with the wire.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You mean you won’t. You want to make it my responsibility.”

  “Do you . . . ?” Alice stopped speaking. She winced and grabbed hold of her cup handle, kneading it between her thumb and forefinger. “I have a daughter in Montana. I don’t want her to know I was connected to the Birches.”

  “Won’t she find out one day?”

  “Did you know the name Alice Ryder? No one does anymore. My daughter can’t be interested in the Birch family. Their money, the way they live. If she doesn’t know them, she doesn’t know about me and she’s safe.”

  Any daughter of Alice’s had to be in her thirties or older, Anna thought. Alice was letting her fear of the Birch family override all reason. She had an adult daughter living in Montana, and the claws of Matthew Birch—dead Matthew Birch—did not reach that far.

  “I don’t think you should worry about your daughter. The Birches are selling Sparrow House, and that house is the only interesting thing about them. Besides, wouldn’t she like to hear about your history? She’s an adult, she can handle it.”

  “She’s forty-one,” Alice said flatly.

  “Well, see?”

  Alice stared into Anna’s eyes, her gaze wild and hard. She waited, saying nothing.

  “Oh, my God,” Anna said at last.

  Alice began to speak, slowly and deliberately, emphasizing each word. “I can’t let her know. She must never know who her father is. I’ve told her I don’t know.”

  “But the Birch estate. As Matthew’s daughter she’s entitled.”

  “No. Promise me.” Alice tensed. She made fists with her hands and clenched her jaw, trying everything in her power to make herself look fierce. She would protect her daughter from her heritage by any means. “They’ll drag her in using their name and money. Who can resist Birch money? Could you? They won’t get her. She’s not a Birch, she’s a Nolan, and she’ll stay that way.”

  “It’s your business and I have no intention of interfering.” Anna rummaged through her purse for her billfold so she could give Grace a tip on the way out. “I wish you’d granted me the same courtesy and not interfered in my life.”

  Looking crestfallen, Alice said, “When Kurt’s widow dies, if I’m still alive, I’ll say something. Until then, she’ll continue to get her money.”

  “If she is getting it.” Anna drew out two dollar bills then slung the purse strap over her shoulder. “Did you tell Matthew you were pregnant?”

  “I didn’t know it at the time. I left the house and never talked to him again.”

  “Did you care for him or was it a one-night stand?”

  “One night. That night.”

  “The night he made you write that note.”

  She again looked squarely into Anna’s eyes. “And before you ask, yes, I’m sure it was him. Not all of us were sleeping around back then.”

  Anna stood, stepped to the counter, and dropped the bills into Grace’s tip jar. Pausing at the table as she thanked Alice for meeting her, a strange sympathy welled up inside of her. Caught in the spiderweb of October 1970, Alice couldn’t see her way out. She was trapped. “Alice, why don’t you forget Matthew? All these years and he still has a hold on you.”

  “He’s a Birch.”

  “You’re obsessed with the Birches.” Anna clamped shut her mouth. She’d said enough already.

  Alice pressed both palms to the table, as though she were going to rise, but she didn’t budge. “Anna, Matthew was obsessed with me. Don’t you know that?”

  Anna said good-bye and headed for the door.

  “Thank you,” Alice called softly in her little voice. Her small, bird-like voice.

  Anna spun around and marched back to the table, looking down at Alice. Tiny little Alice. “You’re Sparrow, aren’t you?” she asked. “And you started the legend of the Sparrow House ghost to haunt Matthew Birch.”

  22

  By the time Anna parked in front of Sparrow House, it was pouring. Rain struck the Jimmy’s hood, bounced and fell again, then ran in rivers to the gravel drive. She handed Liz the house key, and while Liz ran up the steps to the door, Anna held her purse over her head and let Jackson out of the Jimmy. They both dashed to the front door just as Liz was opening it.

  “Enough with the rain!” Liz cried as she looked skyward before shutting the door.

  Jackson shook, spraying water on the door and across the entryway floor, and Anna, no longer caring about water, fur, or paper towels, adjusted his blanket on the library armchair, dropped her purse beside the chair, and called to him. He sprang to the chair, familiar by now with its contours.

  Liz turned on her laptop and, waiting for the computer to boot, patted her wet hair with a paper towel. “What a mess I am,” she said, undoing her hair clip, gathering her hair, and fastening it again. A few dark strands had escaped the clip and she brushed them from her face. “I’m sorry Jackson didn’t get to play with Suka. I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

  “Jackson was tired too. He was more relaxed in the car with you than he’s been all week here. It did him good.” Anna focused on the bookshelves behind her. She swept ledgers and papers from one of the shelves into a bundle and carried it back to the table. “I want to get out of here before bedtime,” she said, glancing up at Liz.

  Liz scrunched the paper towel and dropped it on the table. “So do I. Not another night in this house. I want to go home. I want to see Dan.”

  “Let’s go through everything—fast. If it looks promising, put it in the purple folder.” Anna plucked the folder from her purse.

  “You took it with you to Elk Park.”

  “Yes.” Anna wondered now if that had been necessary. Had Lawrence come back? “There’s so little in it,” she said, thumbing through it quickly before setting it in the middle of the table.

  Liz grabbed a handful of documents, propped them on her lap, and leaned back in her chair. “I still can’t believe Alice Ryder is Sparrow.”

  “If you’d seen and heard her, you’d know the nickname fits. Matthew called her that from the first day he met her. It was his secret term of affection.”

  “Paxton really doesn’t know why his home is called Sparrow House?”

  “It was called that before he and Nilla were born. They’ve always know it by that name.”

  “And Alice started the ghost calling legend.” Liz clicked her tongue.

  “Using the same words he told her to write the night Kurt Ellison died, and the same blue paper. Matthew had to have known who created the ghost. Maybe that’s why he began to encourage the legend. It was his way of staying close to her.”

  Liz began to sort through the papers on her lap, flipping them face down on the table if they were of no use. “She must have hat
ed him.”

  Anna remained silent. She’d promised Alice she would never tell anyone about her and Matthew’s daughter, and she was going to keep that promise. “She stayed in the Forsythia Room.”

  Liz looked up. “Of course, the yellow room. Did she love Kurt? Is that it?”

  “She liked him.”

  “Is she sure Matthew killed him?”

  “She’s sure.”

  “Then we can include that in our final report. There was a murder here.”

  “I promised we wouldn’t mention Alice. We can show Paxton the coded words, but we can’t say who created them.” She took note of Liz’s growing stack of rejected papers and with renewed vigor added to her own. “Alice also thinks Matthew murdered Charlene. And their baby. She was pregnant with Paxton’s brother at the time.”

  “You mean she didn’t get all woozy with pregnancy and fall down the stairs? What a surprise. Did he push her?”

  Anna shrugged and gazed upward, in the direction of the third floor. “Those awful stairs.”

  “This awful house.” Liz shuddered as she followed Anna’s line of sight.

  “I wonder . . .” Anna continued to look at the ceiling.

  “Stop that. It reminds me of Jackson, and it’s giving me the willies.”

  Anna lowered her eyes. “I was thinking about that nursery. It could have been for Charlene’s baby, and if it was, someone has gone to the trouble of keeping it a nursery all these years.”

  “Not exactly, Anna. It’s revolting in there.”

  “But someone kept the crib and the mattress. And someone changes the lightbulb. It wasn’t coated with dust like everything else in there, and it still worked.”

  “Why would anyone do that? So they can open the door and look at the room?” Liz grimaced and squeezed her eyes shut. “I want out of this museum.”

  “Soon.” Anna took more papers from the shelves, giving some to Liz before dropping back into her seat. “It’s very quiet in here. Where is everyone?”

  “No idea.” Liz, her eyes glued to the papers before her, continued to flip through them at a rapid pace. “Don’t want to know.”

  Tidying the jumble of papers on the table in front of her, Anna began her search, running her eyes over each sheet before flipping it and placing it to the left of the pile. If something on the page—the heading, a signature, the seal of a certificate—didn’t catch her eye, she turned the page and went to the next. There was no time to waste. She had to go through as many of the documents in the library as possible—those from the last fifty or sixty years, in any case.

  “Bingo,” Liz said, waving a sheet of paper. “Another letter from a priest.”

  “How come you keep finding those?” Anna asked.

  “Obviously I have great instincts. Here,” she said, handing it to Anna. “I don’t want to read it. Tell me if it’s bad.”

  “There’s a big purple splotch on it.”

  “Wine maybe? Blood turns brown with time.”

  Anna grimaced then turned her attention to the letter. It was from Father Stafford at St. Joseph’s, the priest who had written the second letter.

  1 April 1981

  Mr. Birch:

  Charlene has spoken to me about very serious matters. I have attempted to contact you, but as in the past, my attempts have failed. I am sending copies of this letter to the Archdiocese, the Sheriff’s Department, and the Elk Park PD.

  I spoke with Charlene yesterday, and I was alarmed by her appearance. She is not healthy, and because she is pregnant, that lack of health extends also to the life of your unborn child. This goes beyond neglect. It has all the appearance of abuse.

  Charlene continues to be concerned about your son Paxton, who I must again remind you is a minor. He is frightened to sleep in his own room unless his friends or Charlene are with him. He has nightmares.

  Charlene says that your interest in the new age organization known as The Destiny Society is the source of much of this, as are your forays into the occult (through séances at the house, among other things—surely you understand the effect this has on Paxton?) and continued interest in spiritualist reading.

  The most terrible charge brought to my attention is that yesterday you struck her in the face several times with a rosary then pushed part of that rosary into her mouth—and all while your son Paxton watched.

  I cannot stop you from involving yourself in the activities mentioned above, but this letter serves as notice that I have contacted the Archdiocese and law enforcement officials regarding your abuse of Charlene and your neglect of Paxton.

  Fr. William Stafford

  “Oh, no,” Anna breathed. “This letter was written two days before Charlene’s death. It’s her death warrant.” She held it out to Liz. “Stafford says he told church officials and the police. Didn’t he understand how Matthew would react? He’d already shoved a rosary down Charlene’s throat—pushing her down the stairs would be easy.”

  Liz’s eyes narrowed as she read. She was a moment away, Anna thought, from throwing up a hand and reading the letter through the cracks between her fingers.

  “I knew we shouldn’t touch those rosaries,” Liz said. “Matthew Birch was evil.” She tossed the letter across the table. “Are we sure, absolutely sure, he’s dead?”

  “And not living on the third floor? I don’t believe it, Liz. He died of hepatitis. You can’t fake that.”

  “Then what are those noises? And how are the paintings moving?”

  A clap of thunder rattled the window and lightning flashed across the library. It was four hours before sunset, but already the room was getting dark. Anna pushed herself several inches out of her chair and looked to the library window. “It’s raining harder. Have you ever known it to rain so much in Colorado?”

  “Yes, in the summer of 1997. Part of Fort Collins flooded.”

  “I was in Wyoming. The whole sill is wet.”

  “Forget the sill, it’s not our job.”

  Anna relented. “I wonder if the painting moved last night.”

  “You didn’t look at it?”

  “I know it’s silly, but I avoided it when I walked by.”

  “It’s not silly.” Liz cringed. “I lied. I didn’t go to bed last night. That’s why I was down here before you. Didn’t you notice I’m wearing the same clothes?”

  “I didn’t want to say anything.”

  “Hilarious. I couldn’t face the blueberry room by myself, and I didn’t want to, you know, bother you.”

  Anna grunted. “What a jerk I was.”

  “Yeah, me too. We’ll survive.”

  “Now that we have that settled.” Anna stood and called Jackson to her side. “Let’s see what happened to that painting.”

  A look of horror crossed Liz’s face. “You’re not serious.”

  “It’s still light out.”

  “Not up there it isn’t.”

  “Come on, you’ve got a story to write. You’re going to blow away the Elk Park Herald. They only wish they could be here.”

  “I almost forgot about them.” Liz sprang to her feet, the thrill of the journalistic chase returning to her eyes.

  “Where’s the flashlight?” Anna’s eyes darted from shelf to shelf and then to the table. She spotted the flashlight on the chest by the window, grabbed it, and set off for the sitting room.

  “Hang on,” she heard Liz say. Her friend’s footsteps sounded heavy on the floor as she raced to catch up. “This is nuts, you know.”

  “I’m not going to leave this place thinking there’s a ghost in it—or a seventy-year-old hippie in an attic room.” The guilt she’d felt while prowling around the basement had crumbled. Someone had been amusing him or herself at her and Liz’s expense since Monday, and she had every right to find out who.

  Liz stopped and clutched at Anna’s arm, yanking her back. “We’re not going up to the third floor,” she said. Her expression was deadly serious.

  “For now we’re just going to check out the painting. O
ne Goliath at a time.” She mounted the stairs, Liz alongside her and Jackson at her heel, pivoted left at the top, and turned on the flashlight, at first pointing it at the floor to light their way.

  Halfway down the hall, she tilted the beam upward and aimed it at the far wall. Already she could tell the painting was different. The muddy browns and purples had been replaced by splashes of blue and green. As she drew closer she made out shapes—blue triangles, green rectangles—and saw that a dozen or more animal faces, cutouts from a book or magazine, had been pasted over the shapes.

  “It’s a collage,” Liz whispered.

  “By an artistically challenged lunatic,” Anna said. “Who would make something like this?”

  “Who would want to hang it in their house?”

  “Someone who doesn’t want anything in the house to change.”

  “Like the furniture. The nursery.”

  “But there’s another possibility. What if no one cares?” She pointed the beam at the ceiling. “I’ve been thinking that the paintings, the bear, and all that are deliberate, that someone likes them, but what if they’re just leftovers no one can be bothered about? I’ve never seen Paxton or Nilla look at a painting or drawing.”

  “They’re not important to them, that’s for sure. Look at this.” Liz ran her finger along the top of the collage’s frame, dislodging a layer of dust.

  Anna swung the flashlight down the hall, toward Lawrence’s bedroom.

  “What are you looking at?”

  “Have any of the paintings in your bedroom changed?” Anna replied.

  “Not since yesterday. I don’t know about last night.”

  Anna crept down the hall, holding the beam at waist level and pointing it upward at the wall to her left. She passed the door to the attic stairs, and then, on the wall, three small drawings, all of them charcoal portraits. She edged closer to Lawrence’s room, looking for paintings or sconces, anything hanging on the wall, but there was nothing. She heard Jackson breathing at her side and Liz coming down the hall, her approach signaled by creaks in the floor.