Blue Moon: Mundy's Landing Book Two

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  “Can I see it?”

  Annabelle leads the way down the hall and shows Kim the large, pleasant space with the window seat and fireplace. It’s empty now, other than a few sealed moving boxes and stacks of old newspapers in one corner. But when Augusta Purcell lived here, it was filled with mahogany bedroom furniture and framed family photos.

  “So it wasn’t this room,” Kim says, “and it wasn’t the nursery and it wasn’t the master bedroom. That leaves two other possibilities on the second floor for the guest room, right?”

  Annabelle nods.

  “And one is Oliver’s room?”

  Again, she nods.

  “Does he know that there’s a fifty-fifty chance there was a dead body there a hundred years ago?”

  “We don’t really talk about that.”

  “Connor said Oliver knows what happened here,” she confides in a hushed tone, as if it might be news to Annabelle, “and that it doesn’t even bother him.”

  “No, but—” She breaks off, hearing footsteps descending the stairs from above. A moment later, Trib emerges from a door midway down the hall, followed by Ross.

  Spotting Annabelle, he gives her a thumbs-up. “Hey. Nice observatory and ballroom.”

  “Observatory? Ballroom?” Kim echoes. “Seriously?”

  “Servants’ quarters, too,” Ross tells her.

  “Okay, first of all, it’s not really an observatory,” Annabelle points out. “It’s just a cupola with an old telescope in it. And it’s not like we’re hosting balls in the ballroom. Or like we have servants.”

  From Trib: “Unless you count me.”

  “Come on, Annabelle, show me your ballroom so I can start planning Catherine’s sweet sixteen party. Maybe by then she’ll be speaking to me again.”

  “Trib can take you back up, since he’s the servant and all,” Annabelle tells her. “I have to go check on the chicken.”

  “It’s about four hundred degrees up there,” Trib says. “If it’s not ready yet, you should stick it upstairs for a few minutes.”

  Excusing herself, Annabelle heads back down the hall.

  Kim is one of her dearest friends. She doesn’t blame her for being curious, asking questions. Still, she can’t help but feel protective of the old house. It’s an architectural masterpiece, a warm and sturdy haven for the families who lived beneath its turreted, iron-crowned roof. Yet despite what might otherwise be an illustrious hundred-and-fifty-year history, most people are interested only in its role as a backdrop to one dark, horrific night.

  All but caressing the silky banister as she starts down the stairs, she can just imagine the resentment aging Augusta Purcell must have felt over the widespread curiosity in her ancestral home. She can even summon sympathy for curmudgeonly Lester, who probably—

  Hearing movement at the foot of the stairs, she’s startled to see Catherine there. She’s holding her phone like a camera, aimed up the stairway.

  Seeing Annabelle, she guiltily lowers the phone. “Sorry, I just . . . I was texting my friends that I’m in a Murder House and they wanted to see a picture, so . . .”

  “Oh.” Annabelle’s hand leaves the banister to rake through her short, dark, sweat-dampened hair.

  Catherine grins. “Don’t worry. You’re not in it.”

  Gratified that she’s not scowling for a change, Annabelle decides to go with Catherine’s presumption that her gesture was vanity, rather than frustration. “Good. I was afraid you’d post it somewhere.”

  “You mean on social media? I don’t do that.”

  “I thought everyone does.”

  Catherine shrugs. “Well, I don’t do it that often.”

  Yeah. Sure.

  “It’s just, we’re new to living in . . .” Say it. You might as well. It wouldn’t be the first time. “. . . a Murder House. We’re still trying to settle in and get used to it. It’s not easy with the Mundypalooza invasion, so . . . you know. I’m just trying to maintain a little privacy wherever I can.”

  “I totally get that. I’m so sorry. My friends just wanted to know what it’s like inside.”

  Annabelle fights the urge to tell her that it’s okay, and add that she won’t tell Kim, but . . .

  Tell her what?

  That her daughter was taking a picture of your house? Big deal. Or that you just had a conversational exchange with the sullen, silent teen? That she doesn’t seem to hate you after all?

  Anyway, it isn’t okay. She feels as violated as she did this morning, when she found that her Web surfing had been transformed into a spectator sport.

  “Can you do me a favor?” she asks Catherine.

  The girl doesn’t immediately agree, but the remnants of the grin are still on her face, albeit joined by a wary expression in her blue eyes. “What is it?”

  “I just need help with the strawberries for dessert. I forgot to cut them up. Do you mind?”

  “Oh . . . not at all.”

  “Great. Come on.” Annabelle escorts the girl to the kitchen, thus ensuring that there will be no “Inside the Murder House” photos floating around in cyberspace for the time being.

  When Ora returns to her third-floor apartment, she finds her feline companion blissfully snoozing at the foot of the bed. So much for relying on the animal’s instinct to tell her whether something is amiss in the house. Rosie doesn’t even stir when Ora nudges her feet beneath the warm, furry weight on the coverlet.

  Maybe nothing is amiss.

  Having lived in old houses all her life, Ora knows that their joints creak and groan as much as her own do these days. Pipes rumble and clang, foundations shift, eaves shake . . .

  So why was she so quick to conclude that there was a prowler tonight? Because the cat was spooked and ran?

  I’m probably the one who scared her when I called out.

  Ora sighs and turns over, wondering if perhaps she’s finally gone senile. Papa did when he wasn’t nearly as old as she is now. Illness claimed Mama long before dementia could have. Great-Aunt Etta prided herself on having all her marbles “and then some,” as she liked to put it, until the day she died.

  But Papa—her distinguished, dignified, brilliant, and scholarly papa—was reduced to childlike confusion in his final years on this earth.

  If I were senile, Ora reminds herself, I wouldn’t know it.

  Her father never did. Ora humored his delusions, even when he insisted on talking to people who either weren’t alive anymore or had never been alive at all. His imaginary friends included Rip Van Winkle, whom he frequently insisted was playing ninepins in the living room, making quite a racket.

  “Do you hear it?” Papa would demand, clasping his gnarled hands over his ears. “Tell him to quiet down in there!”

  Ora would tell him that she did hear it, and duly swallow back her sorrow to scold the imaginary visitor.

  Is it possible that she’s now entertaining imaginary visitors of her own?

  The idea seems preposterous. But Papa would probably have said the same thing, had she tried to convince him that Rip Van Winkle and the others weren’t really there.

  Earlier, as she went through the mansion opening closets and peering into corners, she honestly hoped she was going to come across someone lurking. Unpleasant as it might have been to confront an intruder, at least she’d have known that she can still count on her senses, her brain, her instincts.

  Now . . .

  I can’t count on anything at all.

  Ora rolls onto her back and stares at the shadows playing across the ceiling. Glumly, she wonders what will become of her if she truly is beginning to fade away.

  Holmes hadn’t lingered long in the mansion after Ora plodded back upstairs. Once the potential thrill of discovery had dissipated, his visit was as entertaining as hanging around a concert after the headliners have played their final encore.

  Hands in his pockets, he whistles softly to himself as he walks up the steep slope of Prospect Street, away from the historical society.

  H
e doesn’t slow his pace as he passes the old stone house across the street, at number 65.

  Back in detective mode, expertly gathering information with a mere sidewise glance, he notes that the lights are on and the Yamazaki family is home. All three of their vehicles are parked in the driveway: a pair of SUVs and a sedan with physician’s plates that read Vani-T. Vanity, Holmes discerned long ago. The car belongs to Dr. Yamazaki, a plastic surgeon.

  The house has central air-conditioning, but despite the closed windows, he can hear the family’s dog barking from somewhere within. It’s an Akita, which is not a breed known for being yappy. Perhaps it senses change. They often do. With luck, the dog will soon become accustomed to increasing activity level surrounding the house.

  What fun it was to stay one step ahead of Ora Abrams as she made her way around the house like a geriatric superhero. He was tempted to really spook her—maybe knock over something in her path, or whisper from the shadows. But he refrained. Now is the time to tread carefully.

  Really, his hat is off to the old gal. Unfortunately, it’s merely a baseball cap, as opposed to the houndstooth deerstalker Sherlock would have doffed. He couldn’t resist buying one when he visited London, but he doesn’t dare wear it out in public.

  Ora didn’t seem particularly fearful. Perturbed, maybe. Inquisitive, yes. But afraid? No.

  Holmes wonders what it would take to really scare Ora Abrams.

  Outside the Dapplebrook Inn, a pair of women stand chatting with the female driver of a car parked at the curb with the engine running. They all glance in his direction and wave. He waves back, not slowing his pace.

  “Good to see you,” one of the women calls. “How have you been?”

  “Very well, thank you.” He’s learned not to return the question unless you really want to know the answer. Holmes never does.

  He walks on, reaching the intersection of Prospect and State. His SUV is parked straight ahead, way out beyond The Heights, near the elementary school.

  Meanwhile, off to the left . . .

  No. It’s a bad idea. Visiting the historical society tonight had been foolhardy. He’s lucky he made it out of there, just as he was lucky yesterday in the Bingham house.

  Still . . .

  He wouldn’t actually go inside this time. He’d just stroll by. Just to see. Just to . . . anticipate. No harm in that, is there?

  If someone were to notice him strolling through The Heights now, they might remember and become suspicious later, when the frightfulness begins anew.

  Plenty of people are wandering through The Heights this weekend.

  But look at S.B.K., who had boldly existed amid the flurry without ever arousing suspicion. What fun it must have been to look befuddled investigators in the eye while wearing a mask of innocence and respectability! How glorious to answer their questions one moment and make them dance like marionettes the next, amid the chaotic fear that accompanied the discovery of each new corpse.

  Soon, Holmes will know exactly what that feels like.

  For now, all he can do is savor the anticipation.

  Go ahead. You’re entitled. You’ve worked so hard.

  He makes a left, heading up State Street toward Bridge.

  Ah, yes, it was the right decision. The neighborhood is alive on this warm night. Extra cars are parked in driveways and bumper to bumper along the curbs. The old houses are brightly lit inside and out. Conversation spills out to the sidewalk from some porches, where candles flicker and gliders creak. Kids are still playing in their yards, gleefully celebrating summer vacation.

  Holmes passes a dog walker, a teenage couple, a jogger. All nod pleasantly, caught up in their own little worlds, as is he. No one gives him a second glance.

  He’s just like S.B.K.

  No.

  He is S.B.K.

  Locking the front door after the departing Winston family, Annabelle turns to Oliver. “Up you go. Brush your teeth and get your pajamas on.”

  “But it’s not a school night.”

  “I know, but you were up way too late last night and way too early this morning.”

  His protest is swallowed by an enormous yawn.

  Trib grins and pats him on the head. “Get moving.”

  Oliver dutifully heads up the stairs, and Annabelle and Trib return to the kitchen. Looking at the pans in the sink and the dishes and leftovers crammed into patches of counter, she groans.

  Trib starts to speak, but she cuts him off.

  “Don’t say I told you so. Please?”

  “I was just going to say go to bed. I’ll clean up.”

  “Really?”

  He nods, giving her a squeeze. “You made a great dinner, and you were right. It was nice to have people here. It’s starting to feel more like home.”

  “It is, isn’t it?” She lingers to discuss the evening—fun, they agree, despite the disorganization, the heat, and Catherine’s mood. The girl had been cheerful and even chatty while helping Annabelle prepare the strawberries in the kitchen. But as soon as her mother reappeared, she was back to ornery and combative. Stressed, Kim polished off the wine she’d brought and part of another bottle before the evening was over.

  “I can’t really blame her,” Trib says, rinsing plates as Annabelle hunts through the cabinet beneath the sink for Brillo. “She could have said, ‘It’s warm out tonight’ or ‘It’s Friday’ and Catherine would have jumped to contradict her.”

  “I know. Earlier, when she said Catherine hates her, I thought she was exaggerating. Now I’m not so sure. Do you think Oliver’s going to put us through that?”

  “Not you. Me. At that age, boys resent their dads, and girls resent their moms.”

  “According to Kim, girls resent everyone.”

  “Did you?”

  “My father died when I was twelve. I wouldn’t have had the heart to hate my mother after what we’d been through. It was me and her against the world.”

  “You were always a sweetheart, though.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  He grins. “Sure I do. Everyone always thought that, including me.”

  He’s a year older, but their circles of friends overlapped. In high school, he had a steady girlfriend who graduated with him but was on the swim team with Annabelle. She, in turn, was dating Steve Reed, who was Trib’s age and wrote the sports column for the school newspaper—badly.

  By contrast, Trib’s articles were always thorough, well-researched and flawlessly written. His byline was on the front page beginning freshman year, he was news editor junior year, and named editor-in-chief as a senior. Steve resented that, complaining that Trib was appointed because his family owned the Tribune.

  Even back then, long before Annabelle ever imagined he could possibly be her future husband, she championed him: “I think he deserves it. He’s a good writer and he wants to become a reporter.”

  Steve, who wanted to become a professional athlete and fancied himself a talented writer as well, lasted one semester at Cortland State before flunking out.

  Of course, as a swimming pool contractor, he’s far wealthier than she and Trib will ever be.

  Annabelle finds the Brillo, and Trib takes it out of her hands. “Go upstairs. You’re tired.”

  “So are you.”

  He shrugs. “I’ll sleep in tomorrow. You won’t.”

  He’s right about that. Her inner alarm clock always goes off at the same time. Hopefully tomorrow morning, she’ll be able to head to the gym to swim her laps. She’d missed this morning’s swim thanks to the mouse.

  Remembering, she almost asks Trib what he thinks about hiring an exterminator. But she decides against it. She’s too tired to talk about the never-ending to-do list right now. Anyway, Oliver was so caught up in the excitement of having a friend over that his rodent fears have evaporated for the time being.

  She kisses him on the cheek and starts out of the kitchen. Then, remembering something else, she turns back.

  “Go to bed, Annabelle. I’ve g
ot this.”

  “No, it’s . . . I forgot to tell you something. Yesterday morning, I saw someone in the yard.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Quickly, she explains as Trib scrubs the chicken pan without missing a beat.

  He doesn’t say So? but he might as well.

  “It’s going to happen,” he tells her with a shrug. “The gawkers are back in town. It’s nothing new. We knew what we were getting into when we bought this place.”

  “No, I know.”

  She’s never been thrilled by the traffic congestion and overall lack of parking spots, restaurant seats and common courtesy. But it’s much worse when your home is the target of their fascination. Especially when you can’t even draw curtains to shield yourself from the prying eyes of amateur detectives, crime buffs, curiosity seekers, press, and plain old nutcases who descend like droves of stinkbugs every summer.

  “Maybe we should talk to the Yamazakis or Mr. Hardy,” Trib suggests, vigorously scrubbing a stubborn spot in a pan.

  The Yamazaki family lives at 65 Prospect Street; Bill Hardy at 19 Schuyler Place.

  “What would we say to them?”

  “We’d ask them for some helpful hints for surviving Mundypalooza when you live in a Murder House, I guess.”

  Annabelle shrugs. “That’s not exactly what I had in mind.”

  “What did you have in mind? Do you want to call the cops?”

  “I already told them.”

  Trib stops scrubbing. “You called the cops and didn’t tell me?”

  “No, I ran into them—well, one. Ryan Greenlea was directing traffic near the bus stop and I mentioned it to him.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He asked if I wanted to file a report.”

  “And you said no?”

  “Right. But it bothered me to see someone standing there staring at the house, especially with Oliver around. If it happens again, I’m calling the cops.”

  “For a trespasser?”

  “I’m sure people have been calling them at the drop of a hat ever since the Armbruster thing.”

  “Is that why you’re so rattled by this?”

  “No. I don’t know. Maybe.” She shoves her fingertips through her sweat-dampened hair, pushing it off her forehead. “I’m so tired I can’t remember why I was so rattled. But I thought I should mention it.”