Blue Moon: Mundy's Landing Book Two

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  She patiently answers every single one.

  Some more truthfully than others.

  She’s so confident that the case will go unsolved that she offered an exceptionally large reward this year to anyone who can unmask the killer. In the unlikely event that some genius pieces things together, Ora will have one less secret to decide whether she should keep or share.

  With a sigh, she steadies her cane and hoists herself to her feet. Slowly, with the orange tabby trailing a step behind, she makes her way up the steps to her quarters. This flight is steeper than the first and much narrower, dimly lit and enclosed by walls rather than carved rails.

  Clutching the simple banister with one hand and her cane with the other, she’s nearly reached the top when she hears a creaking sound far below.

  There are many things about Ora’s old body that are failing: her legs, her dexterity, her eyesight. But her hearing is still sharp. So is her mind.

  Ora stands poised, frowning. The cat, too, has turned back, her ears back and twitching.

  After a few moments, Ora hears the creaking again. It’s faint, but she didn’t imagine it.

  Someone is downstairs.

  Like the rest of the house at 46 Bridge Street, the natatorium was built on a grand scale. It wasn’t added until the 1950s, when Augusta Purcell’s doctor prescribed swimming as physical therapy for her arthritis, but the design reflects the home’s Victorian architecture.

  Three walls consist of beveled casement windows above built-in wrought-iron benches. The canopy of branches casts eerily fluid shadows through the glass. They move like phantoms across the mosaic tile floor, swallowed by the yawning rectangle in the middle.

  The fourth wall, which runs along the back of the house, is plaster, painted in a mural. It’s cracked and faded, but you can still make out a World War I–era scene at an outdoor pool surrounded by arched brick columns and foliage. The women wear striped bathing dresses and bloomers, the men one-piece tanks.

  “This is the coolest thing ever,” Kim tells Annabelle, looking around.

  “Right now, it feels like the hottest thing ever.”

  Broken portions of the gabled leaded glass ceiling are covered in plywood, but late day sun falls through the rest, creating an uncomfortable greenhouse effect.

  “When’s the first pool party?”

  “Probably not this weekend.” Annabelle’s tone is as dry as the pool, which hasn’t been used in at least fifty years. The tile border is motley and missing so many pieces that it’s impossible to distinguish a pattern, let alone discern the colors. A network of fissures covers the plaster walls, and the sloping bottom is strewn with rubble.

  “You hired someone to fix it, though, right?”

  “I wasn’t going to. But Trib and I ran into Steve Reed at the hardware store the other day and he offered to come over and take a look.”

  Kim raises an eyebrow. “Did Trib tell him to get lost?”

  “He probably would have, and not because I used to date Steve. He’s more worried about our household budget than some old boyfriend almost thirty years later. But I told Steve to come on over, and he did. He said a job had just been postponed and he can’t start the next one for a few weeks, so he can squeeze us in.”

  “What did Trib say to that?”

  “He wasn’t here. When I told him, he said there’s no way we’re spending money on a pool. But Steve is giving us a rock-bottom deal as long as he can do it right away, and if we don’t jump on it, we’ll never be able to afford to do it.”

  “Was Trib okay with that?”

  “Not really. He still thinks the pool should be at the tail end of the to-do list. But he gave in.” Only after several arguments she’d rather not remember, or discuss.

  “Just remind him of all the money you’ll save when you drop the gym membership so that you can swim laps at home,” Kim tells her.

  “I did. And he reminded me of all the money we’ll spend on repairs and maintenance. Anyway, Steve starts tomorrow. But you might not want to mention that in front of Trib.”

  “I’m glad I’m not the only one with marital discord.”

  “We don’t have marital discord—and neither do you!”

  “Don’t be so sure.” Kim sips from the wineglass she topped off before the tour. “All we ever do lately is argue about the kids. Well, mostly one kid. You can’t imagine the stress it’s causing between me and Ross.”

  Annabelle says nothing to that, watching Kim tap across the floor in her heeled sandals, stepping around a box of tile samples. Her shoulders and long legs, bare in a short sundress, are already tanned, and her toenails are painted a bright coral shade to match her dress.

  Wearing as little as possible due to the heat—a tank top, shorts, and flip-flops—Annabelle is underdressed alongside her friend. She spends her days quite comfortably in swimsuits and athletic wear, but there’s something about Kim that always makes her feel vaguely inadequate.

  Suddenly, she feels utterly exhausted by the sheer . . . imperfection of it all. Her marriage, her house, her finances, her child’s health . . .

  Nothing is perfect, she reminds herself. Nobody’s life is perfect.

  Kim is struggling, too. She just manages to look good doing it.

  Annabelle watches her pause to inspect a pair of enormous stone planters containing brittle stalks that were once the trunks of lush palm trees. “You should fill these with flowers, Annabelle. And—ooh, what’s that?” She points to the carved white angel on a small stone platform just above the illegible depth marker on the deep end.

  “Lynda Carlotta thinks the pedestal was originally meant to hold a diving board. But Augusta must have put the statue there instead.”

  “Not to be morbid, but it looks like a tombstone sitting in front of an open grave. Is it supposed to be some kind of memorial to the Sleeping Beauties?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “I bet it is.”

  Annabelle shrugs. She hadn’t given it much thought, nor even considered that possibility, until this moment. But it’s in the back of her mind as she goes on talking about the expensive filtration system Steve is giving them at cost.

  “Too bad you can’t take what you would have spent on it and install central air-conditioning.” Kim wipes sweat from beneath her blond bangs as she peers into the shadowy chasm at the deep end.

  “We wouldn’t have spent anything at all on it—not for years,” Annabelle reminds her. “Anyway, I’d rather have the pool. We’ll get more use out of it, since I can swim three hundred and sixty-five days a year, and it’s hardly ever this hot around here.”

  “No, but when it is, you die.” Kim fans herself with a hand, and Annabelle takes the hint to move on with her tour, the word die echoing darkly in her head.

  “Who’s there?” Ora calls from the top of the third-floor stairway.

  No reply.

  Not surprising. If someone is downstairs, then he broke in. And if he broke in, he’s hardly going to announce himself.

  Still, she calls a little louder, “Hello?”

  Again, she seems to hear a faint creaking sound far below. The cat must have heard it, too, because she dives past Ora with a nervous meow-growl and disappears into the third-floor shadows.

  Hmm. Should she call the police?

  No. Goodness knows they already have their hands full with the crowds in town tonight. Besides, if they arrive before she works her way down all those stairs, they might break down a lovely original oak door or, God forbid, shatter a stained glass window. Better to investigate on her own first.

  Armed with her walking stick, Ora painstakingly creeps back down to the first floor, pausing every couple of steps to listen for creaking or footsteps. She hears not a sound.

  But someone is here. She can feel him.

  The thought makes her uneasy, but not afraid.

  She’s quite accustomed to visitors who come snooping around after hours at this time of year, although they typically don’t find their w
ay inside. She’s also had a few stray visitors who’d become so absorbed in an exhibit that they failed to exit when the others did, before Ora locked the doors.

  She’s usually careful to make sure that everyone who comes in goes out. But she could have overlooked someone tonight. Her mind isn’t what it used to be. Maybe she should start counting heads as people enter and then again as they exit . . .

  Oh, nonsense, she tells herself even as that thought enters her head. You’re much too busy to stand around counting all day long.

  She should probably install an alarm system. She’s been meaning to do it, but it never seemed necessary until now.

  She eyes the wooden chest prominently on exhibit in the front parlor. The Mundy’s Landing Sestercentennial Time Capsule, scheduled to be opened at the gala next Thursday night, is temporarily on exhibit here. Years ago, vandals tried to steal it from its burial place in the Common. What if someone is after it now?

  Concerned, she makes her way from room to room, peering beneath tables until she grows tired of stooping, and poking behind draperies for as long as her old bones can stand it.

  Finally, she decides to curtail the inspection, certain that she and Rosie are quite alone in the mansion.

  And if by chance they’re not . . .

  She’ll just have to hope the intruder is more interested in browsing the collection than stealing it. There might be valuable antiques on the first floor and sealed in the wooden chest, but the most priceless relics are as securely tucked away as Ora’s secrets.

  Holmes’s Case Notes

  Poring over historic photos, I am struck by the physical differences between Annabelle Bingham, with her willowy frame and dark, boyishly cut hair, and her 1916 counterpart.

  Florence Purcell was fair-skinned, buxom even for her time, and wore her pale hair elaborately twisted upon her head. Perhaps to compensate for life’s limitations, she was impeccably groomed and had the finest clothing her husband’s handsome salary could buy. Photos taken during the investigation that summer show her wearing the latest styles: belted waists, tiered skirts fashionably cut above her ankles, hats trimmed with ribbon and ostrich plumes.

  All dressed up, as they say, with nowhere to go. That was Florence. For the twelve years that spanned 1904–16, she was locked away in the house with her children and her secrets, like a beautiful butterfly still ensnared by its cocoon.

  Only after the frightfulness did she emerge to spread her wings. She was no stranger to speakeasies and became a vocal proponent for women’s rights, which is how she met the famed feminist journalist Ruth Hale, an Algonquin Round Table regular. It is said that she introduced Florence to artists and writers including the great Dorothy Parker.

  For all her socializing and gallivanting, Florence never spoke of the past. Who could blame her, when the slightest misstep might incriminate her?

  Chapter 7

  As she leads Kim through the first-floor rooms, Annabelle can’t stop thinking about the stone angel.

  In any other house, the piece might feel quirky, perhaps ostentatious. In a Murder House . . .

  It does look like a tombstone that would suit any of the three dead girls buried in Holy Angels Cemetery. Annabelle has seen their graves, unceremoniously marked by slabs etched with the year 1916.

  Was Augusta Purcell thinking of them—at least, of the one found in this house—when she had the stone angel placed on the diving pedestal?

  According to the local grapevine, Lester is sticking around for the summer. If she runs into him, she can ask him about it. Or maybe there’s some information in the historical society archives—though if she mentions the statue to Ora Abrams, Ora will probably want to add it to her collection.

  She and Kim find Catherine still sprawled on the couch in the back parlor, texting her friends.

  “Can I get you some cold lemonade or something?” Annabelle offers.

  “No, thank you.”

  “Look up from your phone when someone is speaking to you, please, Catherine.”

  She looks up, but only to glower at her mother.

  “If you change your mind, help yourself from the fridge,” Annabelle tells her, and they move on.

  Beyond the open screens, the evening air is hushed, still thick with heat. The sounds that reach Annabelle’s ears are likely the same ones Florence Purcell heard on that fateful night: the hum of katydids, a dog barking, and children playing in a neighboring yard. There are no traffic noises, no lawnmowers; nothing to jar her from past to present.

  As Kim pauses at the foot of the stairs to check out the grandfather clock, Annabelle rests a hand on the scarred newel post, thinking of Florence Purcell and July 7, 1916.

  According to the Tribune, the family’s kitten, Marmalade, had gotten out of the house earlier that day and poor little Augusta was beside herself. Marmalade’s mother had recently escaped and been mauled, perhaps by a coyote. Just before bed, Florence had found the kitten and brought her back inside. She’d locked the door, extinguished the gas lamps, tucked in her children, and climbed into bed with a book.

  Annabelle can imagine an intruder creeping into the house just as the clock struck midnight and—

  “Annabelle?” Kim’s voice breaks into her thoughts.

  “Hmm?”

  “I said, if you ever need money, I’ll bet you can get a fortune for this clock.”

  “We don’t want to sell it.” She’s already as attached to it as if it were her own family heirloom. “It belongs in the house. Come on, let’s go upstairs.”

  As they ascend, the silence behind Oliver’s closed bedroom door is punctuated by electronic sound effects and staccato outcries—the boys are still playing a video game. Ah, welcome back to the twenty-first century.

  Overhead, heavy footsteps thud across the third floor. Trib must be showing Ross the old ballroom.

  It’s warm downstairs and hot up here, but it must be downright sweltering above. Annabelle went up this afternoon to open the windows and air out the space, but found that they were painted shut there as well as in the cupola above. Since central air-conditioning is out of the question and even window A.C. units would be a fire hazard without hiring an electrician to rewire the outlets, the third floor is out of commission for the time being.

  There was a terrible heat wave a hundred years ago, too, when the crimes unfolded. The house would have felt just like this: hot and close and still, its occupants wrapped in a suffocating wet blanket.

  Kim admires the antique floral wallpaper and sconces, then asks, “So which room was it?”

  “We’re not sure,” Annabelle lies.

  “Haven’t you ever seen the pictures at the historical society?”

  She grimaces. “Who hasn’t?”

  There are photographs of the corpses in the bedrooms of all the Murder Houses, but Annabelle never studied them closely until she moved into one. She was, like everyone else, far more captivated by the dead schoolgirls than by their surroundings.

  The backdrops had been similar enough that none would stand out in the mind’s eye of a casual observer. All three photos showed vintage wallpaper, perhaps a bureau or bedside table. In one or two or maybe all of the images, there are hints of a fireplace or a tall fabric-festooned window. Those identifying characteristics made it easier for Annabelle and Trib to not only pick out which of the three rooms belongs to their house, but also which room was the scene of the crime.

  “We should go down there tomorrow and look at the pictures again.”

  Ignoring Kim’s suggestion, Annabelle opens the door at the top of the stairs. “This is the master bedroom.”

  “Wow. It’s a great size for an old house—it’s a lot bigger than ours.” Kim and Ross did extensive renovations on their charming Queen Anne Victorian down the block, transforming six small second-floor bedrooms into three that are larger, but hardly spacious.

  “We knocked out a wall. There was an adjoining room right there.” She points to the rectangular alcove that holds an
armoire and dresser. “It’s the only major work we did before we moved in. If we hadn’t done it, pretty much the only thing that have would fit in this room is our bed.”

  Kim pokes around the alcove. “Do you think this was the guest room back then?”

  Annabelle hesitates, but decides against letting her believe that. “No, it didn’t even have a window. It was probably used as a nursery. Lester’s father, Frederick, was just over a year old in 1916 and he was the last baby born in this house, so he was probably still sleeping there when it happened.”

  “If it was a nursery.”

  “Right. Either way, that room only opened into the master bedroom, not the hall, so whoever left the body probably wasn’t going to lug it past the Purcells in the middle of the night.”

  “I can’t even.” Kim shudders. “You sound like a detective. Maybe you’ll solve the crime and win the reward. I bet fifty grand would come in handy, right?”

  “Definitely.”

  “So there were just the two kids in the house then? The baby and old lady Purcell? How old was she when it happened?”

  Old lady Purcell. Annabelle winces. She, too, used to call her that. But ever since she moved into this house, it rankles. Now when she thinks of Augusta Purcell, she imagines her as the cherub-cheeked child in the 1915 family portrait.

  “Augusta was six. Her bedroom was down at the other end of the hall.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because when we looked at the house last fall, that was the only room that had been lived in for years. She had a part-time caregiver once she could no longer get up and down the stairs, because she didn’t want to move her bedroom to the first floor, let alone leave the house. Lester’s lawyer told Ralph Duvane that his aunt spent every night of her entire life in the same room.”